“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.
CHAPTER 15
Nolan slept until ten at the safe-house. He stood at the window of his room and looked out at Central Park. The snow was
