$106,000 Blood Money
I
“I’m Tom-Tom Carey,” he said, drawling the words.
I nodded at the chair beside my desk and weighed him in while he moved to it. Tall, wide-shouldered, thick-chested, thin-bellied, he would add up to say a hundred and ninety pounds. His swarthy face was hard as a fist, but there was nothing ill-humored in it. It was the face of a man of forty-something who lived life raw and thrived on it. His blue clothes were good and he wore them well.
In the chair, he twisted brown paper around a charge of Bull Durham and finished introducing himself:
“I’m Paddy the Mex’s brother.”
I thought maybe he was telling the truth. Paddy had been like this fellow in coloring and manner.
“That would make your real name Carrera,” I suggested.
“Yes,” he was lighting his cigarette. “Alfredo Estanislao Cristobal Carrera, if you want all the details.”
I asked him how to spell Estanislao, wrote the name down on a slip of paper, adding “alias Tom-Tom Carey,” rang for Tommy Howd, and told him to have the file clerk see if we had anything on it.
“While your people are opening graves I’ll tell you why I’m here,” the swarthy man drawled through smoke when Tommy had gone away with the paper.
“Tough—Paddy being knocked off like that,” I said.
“He was too damned trusting to live long,” his brother explained. “This is the kind of hombre he was—the last time I saw him was four years ago, here in San Francisco. I’d come in from an expedition down to—never mind where. Anyway I was flat. Instead of pearls all I’d got out of the trip was a bullet-crease over my hip. Paddy was dirty with fifteen thousand or so he’d just nicked somebody for. The afternoon I saw him he had a date that he was leery of toting so much money to. So he gives me the fifteen thousand to hold for him till that night.”
Tom-Tom Carey blew out smoke and smiled softly past me at a memory.
“That’s the kind of hombre he was,” he went on. “He’d trust even his own brother. I went to Sacramento that afternoon and caught a train east. A girl in Pittsburgh helped me spend the fifteen thousand. Her name was Laurel. She liked rye whisky with milk for a chaser. I used to drink it with her till I was all curdled inside, and I’ve never had any appetite for schmierkäse since. So there’s a hundred thousand dollars reward on this Papadopoulos, is there?”
“And six. The insurance companies put up a hundred thousand, the bankers’ association five, and the city a thousand.”
Tom-Tom Carey chucked the remains of his cigarette in the cuspidor and began to assemble another one.
“Suppose I hand him to you?” he asked. “How many ways will the money have to go?”
“None of it will stop here,” I assured him. “The Continental Detective Agency doesn’t touch reward money—and won’t let its hired men. If any of the police are in on the pinch they’ll want a share.”
“But if they aren’t, it’s all mine?”
“If you turn him in without help, or without any help except ours.”
“I’ll do that.” The words were casual. “So much for the arrest. Now for the conviction part. If you get him, are you sure you can nail him to the cross?”
“I ought to be, but he’ll have to go up against a jury—and that means anything can happen.”
The muscular brown hand holding the brown cigarette made a careless gesture.
“Then maybe I’d better get a confession out of him before I drag him in,” he said offhand.
“It would be safer that way,” I agreed. “You ought to let that holster down an inch or two. It brings the gun butt too high. The bulge shows when you sit down.”
“Uh-huh. You mean the one on the left shoulder. I took it away from a fellow after I lost mine. Strap’s too short. I’ll get another one this afternoon.”
Tommy came in with a folder labeled, “Carey, Tom-Tom, 1361-C.” It held some newspaper clippings, the oldest dated ten years back, the youngest eight months. I read them through, passing each one to the swarthy man as I finished it. Tom-Tom Carey was written down in them as soldier of fortune, gunrunner, seal poacher, smuggler and pirate. But it was all alleged, supposed and suspected. He had been captured variously but never convicted of anything.
“They don’t treat me right,” he complained placidly when we were through reading. “For instance, stealing that Chinese gunboat wasn’t my fault. I was forced to do it—I was the one that was double-crossed. After they’d got the stuff aboard they wouldn’t pay for it. I couldn’t unload it. I couldn’t do anything but take gunboat and all. The insurance companies must want this Papadopoulos plenty to hang a hundred thousand on him.”
“Cheap enough if it lands him,” I said. “Maybe he’s not all the newspapers picture him as, but he’s more than a handful. He gathered a whole damned army of strong-arm men here, took over a block in the center of the financial district, looted the two biggest banks in the city, fought off the whole police department, made his getaway, ditched the army, used some of his lieutenants to bump off some more of them—that’s where your brother Paddy got his—then, with the help of Pogy Reeve, Big Flora Brace and Red O’Leary, wiped out the rest of his lieutenants. And remember, these lieutenants weren’t schoolboys—they were slick grifters like Bluepoint Vance and the Shivering Kid and Darby M’Laughlin—birds who knew their what’s what.”
“Uh-huh.” Carey was unimpressed. “But it was a bust just the same. You got all the
