hell are you, son?” His voice was as rough-hewn as his appearance; his face was stubbled with white, his eyes were sleepy and blue and anything but piercing; his tie was food-stained and floated several inches below the notch of his collar. Sherlock Holmes posing as his own dim-witted Watson.
“Fine, Chief Parker. This is Nate Heller.”
Something in the eyes came to life. “The Chicago feller. The Capone theorist.”
I grinned and shook the hand he thrust forward. “Well, nobody ever accused me of being any kind of theorist before, Chief. Where did you hear my name?”
He sidled up close to me; he smelled like pipe tobacco—foul pipe tobacco. He slipped a fatherly arm around my shoulder. “I have my confidants in that horse’s ass Schwarzkopf’s camp.”
“Do tell.”
“I hear you’re the boy who has stood up to that asshole of creation, Welch.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“I hear you suggested that he kiss your behind.”
“Words to that effect.”
He laughed heartily—he apparently liked subtle humor—and patted me on the back. “Allow me to introduce my deputies.”
He did. I don’t remember their names.
“Maybe one of these days Constable Dixon here will come work for me,” Parker said, finally relinquishing my shoulder.
Dixon lit up like an electric bulb. “I’d like that, sir.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any pull with the Colonel, would you, son?”
“Schwarzkopf?” Dixon asked.
“Hell’s bells, no! Not that asshole.
I raised a hand. “Let me see what I can do.”
Parker’s lumpy face broke apart in a smile. “That’s goddamn white of you, son.”
I went inside, through the servants’ sitting room and then the kitchen, where I saw Betty Gow and Elsie and Ollie Whately in passing, as well as Welch and several of Schwarzkopf’s upper echelon lounging having coffee and sandwiches. The living room was empty, but for the little dog Wahgoosh, who barked at me as usual, and I growled back at him. Rosner wasn’t around, either, his chair outside the study empty but for yesterday’s folded-up racing form.
I knocked on the study door. “It’s Heller, Slim.”
“Come in, Nate,” Lindbergh said, and I did.
“I hear you stayed over in Princeton last night,” he said, looking up from some mail he’d been reading, material the troopers had culled from the hundreds of letters that had come in today.
“Yeah, I was able to, uh, get into that room a day early.”
He nodded noncommittally, only half-listening. “Henry went into the city, to his office, early this morning. He said he felt these spiritualist people were probably charlatans.”
“Yeah, probably,” I said, and sat down. “Where’s Rosner?”
“Pursuing some underworld leads in New York City, today.”
Cops and robbers, with the robber playing cop.
“Slim—there’s somebody outside you ought to give a few minutes to.”
“Who would that be?”
“Ellis Parker.”
Lindbergh nodded, blankly. I might have said Santa Claus or Joe Blow.
“Surely you’ve heard of him,” I said.
“Yes. He’s very well known.” He paused. He sighed. “If you think I should see him, I will.”
“Okay. Slim—are you holding up okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You getting any sleep? You took like hell.”
He smiled thinly. “It’s nice to have somebody around who isn’t afraid to tell me the truth. Yes, I am getting some sleep. Some.”
“Okay. I’m not your nursemaid or anything. But if you’re going to be the guy making the key decisions, you got to be on top of things.”
“I know.”
“Good. I’ll bring Parker around.”
Minutes later, I was ushering Parker in, and Lindbergh rose and the men exchanged greetings and admiration. Then everybody settled into their chairs, Parker leaning forward.
