The Last Hand (22 page)

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Authors: Eric Wight

BOOK: The Last Hand
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“In Cane's case, someone actually asked him your question, and the answer was that for certain strategies and maneuvers he needed more capital than he had—he pretended to be quite honest, saying he needed to be able to risk a lot and even lose it so that he could stay in the market and recover it and more.
“He called ours the Blue Chip Partnership, because we agreed that he should deal for us only in first-rate stocks, those that make up the Dow Jones average.”
“You wanted to play it safe.”
“If you like. And we wanted to know that if a call went wrong, price-wise, we would still hold options on some valuable stock.”
“Options?”
“We didn't deal in the actual shares, but in options to buy or sell them. For the leverage. The thing is …”
“Oh, shit, let it go. What happened?”
“We were wiped out almost immediately.”
“But why send Cane to prison? You knew you were gambling.”
“Because, Inspector, the scheme, the Inertia/Disaster Index, was in fact a con, a scheme to make money for Cane. He never invested our money as he reported; he really gambled with it.”
“And you didn't know what he was doing?”
“We got fake statements almost daily, the way you do when you are trading a lot, statements showing the profits we had made out of specific trades. But it was all, all fake. And Cane's market instincts were no good. When they caught up with him he was broke.”
“What kind of con man is that?”
“Exactly. He believed in what he was selling, even in the Inertia/ Disaster Index. But he believed even more in his other schemes, and they let him down. He didn't line his pockets, though, and they tell me he still thinks if he had a little more time and a little more money, which he was working on, he would have made our fortunes.”
“When the Fraud Squad called, did you tell them you didn't want to proceed?”
“The money wasn't worth the embarrassment, frankly.”
“You looked like assholes. For prominent lawyers, I mean.”
“We would have, yes. But there you are. I still think Cane is a very bright guy who got into the wrong company.”
“What company is that?”
“His own, chiefly.”
“And Lucas was the only cool head among you.”
“Steady on, now …”
“It's hard to see it any other way, Bonar. You were a real gang of suckers, classically conned by your own greed.”
“All right. We should have known better. Jerry was the only one with his head screwed on. When his sister came to him, that was the first time he realized that she was involved, but he acted quickly enough to keep her name out of it.”
“I
'm afraid you're out of luck, Inspector,” Fury said.
“So Lucas didn't perpetrate a defalcation in his clients' accounts?”
“What?”
“A case I was on, the accountants talked like that. I memorized that one.”
“These accountants have given me a preliminary oral assessment of Jerry's clients' affairs, and they found no reason to suspect that they will be surprised when they weigh the supporting data.”
“All on the up and up, eh? No truck with Cane?”
“That's what they said. I will confirm it as soon as I have their written report. I've told them to make a routine check of everything that Jerry was involved in. He dabbled in arts management—two or three times a year he raised the money to put on a concert, arranged for the ticket sales, paid the artists, and so forth. He was also raising money for a hospice, there's a trust fund for that; there's his mother's trust fund that he took over from Larry Holt. I found that in order, but I want them to look at everything.”
“He didn't have a Stradivarius worth getting killed for, did he?”
“He played the piano.”
 
 
Cane was everything they had promised: with his dapper air, even in prison; yellow hair brushed flat across his head; and slim, he
somehow managed to look like an old-time tap dancer in his rehearsal clothes. He was charming, affable and
sincere
, and as far as Salter could tell, completely convinced of his own probity. He did not set out to swindle his clients, only to use their money for a better purpose than the one agreed upon.
“It's very simple,” he told Salter. “I got into currencies, where the real money is. There's a joke there: the real money was about to save me when you guys walked in.”
“You're talking gibberish, Harry.”
“I'll explain in a minute. See, I was betting against the ruble, and the Russians squeezed us by manipulating the exchange rate and by making it very difficult for us to borrow rubles to cover our positions. Then, when we were all bloodless, they took off the squeeze. I was wiped out.”
“It's still gibberish, but it sounds like you came up against a sharper operator than yourself. They're learning fast, aren't they? Was what they did illegal?”
“That term doesn't make any sense in currency trading. A lot of central banks try to manipulate their currencies, but the Russians did it successfully. In effect, they made their money worth twice as much for a day, long enough to kill off the speculation. I imagine they're still laughing.
“But there's no crime in this game. The
sin
is guessing wrong. Anyway, I figured I had one more chance before my clients asked to see their money—the Brazilian
real.
It would have worked, too. No, screw it, it
did
work, but before I could raise enough money to make it pay off, one of my clients called for his money and it wasn't there. Next time it'll be different.”
“There'll be a next time?”
“You think the stock market can go on for ever? Talk about momentum. And I think I have created exactly the tool to figure out when the final drop has started. I hope they let me out of here in time.”
“You won't be allowed to trade, will you?”
“Not under my own name. Have to be a partnership.” Cane laughed. “And that's enough of that. What did you come for? Not to hear my story, I bet.”
“Oh, yes. That, too. But you know why else, don't get cute. A man came to see you and was killed a few days after. We know he came on urgent business. What was it?”
“I lost his sister's money. Twenty thousand. He came to tell me to downplay her name if any reporters wanted my story. She's a politico, you know. It would look bad if …”
“I know, I know. And that was all he came for? What was the urgency about that?”
“That's it, though he did add he would try to help me when I get out.”
“Nothing in writing, I'll bet.”
“I thought his sister might want to honor his word.” Cane looked earnestly at Salter, then shrugged. “But I won't pester her.”
“Good. Now. That's a nice story you just told me, Harry, but it's pure bullshit. I think Lucas came for something else. I think he found something in the woodshed that stunk a lot worse than it should have. Maybe he found you had a lot more than twenty thousand off his sister. Maybe you got her signature on a piece of paper you could take to the bank. I don't know. I'm floundering. Maybe it had nothing to do with her. But right now we've got five forensic accountants scouring Lucas's books, and the Fraud Squad is putting everything else in the X-ray machine to find some new trace, a name that we don't know about, especially anyone associated with you. Because there is money involved, money and you.
“I'm groping around, Harry, and I'll get you by the balls eventually, and the other guy, too. Lucas came to see you and got killed, because of something you told him. Now, what did Lucas come for?”
“I told you, his sister …”
“I'm going to find out in the end. There are only so many possible connections between you and Lucas. I'll start with anyone who lost money with you that Lucas knew. I have the list.”
“For Christ's sake …”
“See, you may be the only person who knows who killed Lucas, or at least, why Lucas was killed.”
“For Chris
sake,
Inspector.”
“I've been looking through the transcript of your trial, too. You
were very cooperative, then. If you stay a good boy you'll be out of here in no time. If not, not.”
“I'm
still
cooperating. I don't know who killed Lucas. What can I say?”
Salter stood up. He had done what he came to do. This one could be left to simmer while he talked to Louise Wilder. “You're very loyal to your friends, Harry. But you'd better tell this one it's a waste of time. I'll get to him soon enough. Don't be there when I do.”
 
 
“Should I have a lawyer present?”
Louise Wilder spoke steadily but not lightly.
“I don't think you'll need one. I plan to ask you to have dinner with me. I don't want to feed your lawyer, too.”
“Is that allowed? Taking a suspect out to dinner?”
“I'll put it on expenses, make it official. I'll tell them I was trying to put you at ease. You're not a suspect, but you may be a witness.”
“Where are we going?”
“You didn't say, ‘Witness to what?' Some people would find that suspicious. You know the Purple Orchid, just south of Woodlawn? Meet me there at six. If you're there first, go upstairs. At that time we should have it to ourselves.”
The Purple Orchid cooperated. Salter and Louise Wilder got a table in the back of the room, shielded by the wall at the top of the stairs. Even when the room was full this table was well protected from prying ears.
“You will be very private here, sir,” confirmed the owner-hostess, a pretty woman in her forties wearing a black pantsuit, her blond hair hanging over one eye.
“They think we are having an affair.” Louis Wilder said.
“Yeah? At my age it's nice to be under suspicion.”
Louise Wilder had adopted a slightly formal manner, as if she were being interviewed for a job, but the remark, a shade bold in the circumstances, suggested she was trying hard to be on top of the situation.
Salter ordered a glass of wine for her and a scotch for himself,
straight with no ice. Most of the time he drank beer, but when he did drink whiskey he liked to taste it.
When the drinks came he ignored his, leaned back and said, “I'll come to the point right away. What were you doing in silver boots and a blond wig in Jerry Lucas's apartment the night he was killed?”
She scrambled to her feet, knocking over her chair. “Some kind of game?” she muttered as if to herself. Then loudly enough so that Salter was glad they were shielded by the wall, “Well, fuck you, Inspector Smartass. I'll sure as hell have a lawyer along when we meet again. And the first thing I'll want to hear from him is whether a meeting like this is legal, or whether you are in for a major goddamn reprimand at least.” She gathered up her purse by the strap, dragged her coat off her chair and pulled it around her.
Salter, on his feet, reached across and touched her arm. “Hold on. Bear with me. That was stupid, what I did. I'm sorry. You're right. I was being cute. Please. Sit down. I'll tell you what I should have said. Please.”
She slumped down and sat sideways on her chair, her purse still held up, as if to keep it from getting wet. She watched him, silent.
Salter cleared his throat, adjusted his chair, and sat back, the bearer of unthreatening news. “We know that Jerry Lucas was killed after you left the apartment. We have evidence that there was someone in the apartment talking to him, even while you and your husband were talking in the parking lot. You are not a suspect. But you might be able to help us. So I'll go back to square one. What were you doing …”
“I still want to know first why we are having this conversation in the Purple Orchid.”
“Because I wanted to talk to you, not question you. I don't have many questions, and I thought if we just talked you might tell me something I didn't know enough to ask for. You are the only one who was on intimate enough terms with him that he might have told you something, dropped a casual remark, revealed a worry, maybe, something I might find useful.”
Slowly she faced forward and stopped gripping her purse so tightly. “You are sure I had nothing to do with it?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. I have to prove it, though, to make the question irrelevant.”
“I always thought you might have to if it came to this.”
“Did Jerry Lucas ever mention the name of Harry Cane?”
“Me first. How did you find out it was me in the fancy dress?”
“Someone identified you.”
“Who? I don't know anyone in that building.”
“The identification was arrived at through matching you with a third party you were said to resemble.”
“In English, please?”
“Someone said you looked like Gloria Grahame.”
“Did they? Do I?”
“I'd already met you. I rented
Oklahoma!
on video. And there you were.”
Now she smiled slightly, her face still unsettled as if she had been slapped. “Yes, okay, I've heard that before. And James, my husband?”
“We tracked him down from his truck. By the way, do you keep your parking stubs, both of you?”
“James saves his for his accountant. Why?”
“They are time-stamped.”
“That's good, isn't it? I still think it's a goddamn strange way to go about it. Surely once you identified me, you should have arrested me right away. I was half expecting it at any time.”
“If I hadn't already met you earlier, I might have.”
“You just
believed
in me, did you?”
“That's right. Then I confirmed it, so I didn't have to believe.”
“Jesus. I guess I got lucky.”
Salter watched as she put her purse over the back of her chair and took a sip of water. “Want to order?”
“First I want a glass of wine.”
“There's one in front of you.”
“So there is.” She gulped, then sipped, then arranged her cutlery. “Right. Go on.”
“There is a man Lucas was mixed up with who is now in jail …” Salter began.
“Harry Cane. The man who swindled Jerry's sister. You started to ask me about him.”
“Was that all Lucas told you about him?”
“He visited Cane in jail. Did you know that?” She was calm now, chatting over dinner.
Salter nodded. “About his sister. About the importance of keeping her name out of his affairs.”
She sipped her wine. “There was more to it than that. Sure, Jerry was concerned to look after Flora's reputation-more than
she
was, I think. Jerry was a little out-of-date about how untainted politicians have to be for the public to accept them.”
“I had to have it explained to me, that no one minds a crook in government. I don't believe it, but the spin doctors might. So he went down to Bath to look after Flora's interests. You know he cancelled a fishing trip to go down to Bath.”
“I was coming to that. Shall I tell you
my
story?. It's what we're here for, right?”

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