“More?”
“It means the Outfit is admitting, in its oblique way, that it’s killed your father. He isn’t even dead yet, and they’re telling you they’ve accomplished his killing.”
I handed the card back to him. He looked as if he were about to crush it in his hand, and I stopped him.
“You might want to show that to Lt. Drury,” I said.
He swallowed. “All right.”
“I don’t suppose it came with a return address?”
Young Ragen managed a little laugh. “No, not hardly.”
“Damn,” I said, with mock disappointment. “Detective work is never easy.”
He smiled at that, momentarily, and I patted his shoulder and rose and said, “Let’s go back to your father’s room.”
We did. I took over for Sapperstein, tired as I was, buoyed by coffee, and Peg stayed in there at her uncle’s side all night. Dr. Graaf went in a couple of times and so did several other doctors and nurses; I checked everybody against my clipboard, like a good operative. The barn door was open, the horse was gone, but I was keeping a watch on the stall anyway.
Very early the next morning, shortly after five, Jim, Jr., came out and said, “Dad’s awake. He’s asking for you.”
I went in. Peggy was standing, holding his hand, looking down at him with what I’m sure she thought was a supportive, encouraging smile. If anybody ever gave me a smile like that, I’d call the morgue myself and save somebody else the trouble.
I went around on the other side of the bed.
“Peggy says you found some things out,” Jim said; his voice was weak, but it still had some steel in it. Or maybe that was just the mercury.
“We did,” I said. “I met Siegel. I’m convinced he didn’t do any of this to you.”
“Guzik, then.”
“Guzik.”
“And I’m expected to do business with that devil.”
“If you do, insist on a hell of a deal.”
I filled him in, some. He listened alertly, as if oblivious to his pain; but he was feeling some, otherwise he would have interrupted more often.
“You know it does make sense, lad,” he said. “When the Outfit put Trans-American together, they had to turn to the eastern boys for help. Guzik could handle Chicago and Milwaukee and so on-but he needed Lansky’s help out east, and Siegel out west. “That’s why they want my set-up-it’s national. We’re everywhere.”
“We can talk about this later, Jim.”
“No we can’t. I’m dying. Nobody will tell me, but I can feel it. They poisoned me, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” I said.
“How much longer do I have?”
“Do I look like a doctor, you crazy Irish bastard?”
“Don’t give me that. How much longer, Nate?”
“They didn’t tell me. I tell you what-why don’t you just take your own sweet time about it.”
“I wish I had some time, lad.” He turned to his niece. “Peggy my girl-peg o’ my heart. Give your uncle a kiss.”
She kissed his cheek.
She stayed near him and he said, “I know I’m dying-there’s an angel at my side.”
“Uncle Jim, please don’t say that…”
“Peg, you’re a good girl. I told Jim, Jr., before-you’re always to have a place in the family business. A piece of it is yours, my dear.”
“Please, Uncle Jim. I don’t care about that…”
“I think you do. You’re not just like a daughter to me, lass. You’re like a son. You could run that business of mine, if ye were.”
“You can run it yourself, Uncle Jim…”
“I need…need two things from you, lass.”
“Anything-”
“I want you to marry this poor excuse for a detective, here. He’s going to need your help. Besides-he’s a good man, even if he is only half a mick.”
“I do love him, Uncle Jim.”
“Good. That makes me glad to hear.”
It made me feel pretty good, too.
“The other thing is something you have to do right now. You can’t wait.”
“Yes?”
“Find me a priest, lass.”
He died at 6.55 a.m. His son had time to call Ellen Ragen to her husband’s side. Also at his side were his other two sons, and one of the three married daughters.
The coroner’s initial report barely mentioned the mercury poisoning, attributing Ragen’s death to “hypotensive heart disease and nephritis complicated by gunshot wounds.” There were “traces of mercury found in a qualitative analysis.” And that was that.
But it wasn’t. Lt. Drury made the point to Coroner Brodie that an important legal question needed to be definitively answered: namely, whether Ragen died due to the gunshot wounds, making for a murder case against the gunmen in the green truck; or heart disease, making it death by natural causes, reducing the charge against the gunmen to attempted murder; or nephritis brought on by mercury poisoning, making for a
About this time, Coroner Brodie received several threatening phone calls that he and his family were in danger unless he “minded his own fucking business” where the Ragen matter was concerned. Brodie moved to a secret office and ordered police guards put on his home, and on the vault at Mt. Olivet, too, where Jim Ragen had been recently interred, the cops protecting the vault till Brodie could receive the permission of the court and Mrs. Ragen to perform a second autopsy.
Mrs. Ragen did object, but the courts overrode it, and it turned out Jim had enough mercury in him to kill three men.
The affidavits? Ragen’s so-called insurance policy? It must have lapsed, because via the family lawyer, Ellen Ragen told the press the affidavits would not be released to the authorities or anyone else. They could not, the lawyer claimed, be found.
An investigation into the hospital staff (not led by Drury, by the way) turned up nothing. Several promising leads fizzled, particularly the revelation that a tube had been inserted in Ragen’s stomach to relieve gas, the night before he died, a tube containing mercury. But the mercury was a different kind than that found in Ragen’s liver and kidneys, a liquid mercury that passes right through the system and can’t be absorbed.
By the end of August two things were obvious: Jim died due to mercury poisoning; and the killer would never be found.
Predictably, Peggy couldn’t accept that. She came storming into my inner office, on the last Saturday in August, and said, “What are you going to do about it?”
I gestured to the client’s chair across from my desk and she sat. She was wearing a simple black suit with pearls and black gloves; she’d either worn black or at least an arm band every day since Jim died.
“About what?” I ventured.
“Mickey McBride just bought out Continental!”
“Really?” Actually, I knew all about it. Jim, Jr., had asked my opinion and I had told him to do what he thought was right.
The violet eyes flashed with anger. “After everything my uncle did, after all his suffering, his family sells him out! How can they be such
“Peg, your uncle was murdered because
