“We had no idea of any manipulation.”
The words had blurted from Henry’s red, unhappy face. I turned to him. “Then you’ve nothing to lose by cooperating.”
Carr cut in, less aggressive now. “I’d like to consider your request,” he said. “How long will you be in Miami?”
I felt my temple throb. There wasn’t time for waiting. I pulled out the newspaper and shoved it under Carr’s face. “There’s one more thing. Lasko was questioned in Boston last night concerning an attempted murder.”
Carr’s mouth parted in surprise. He snatched half-glasses from his inside pocket with hasty, scrabbling fingers. Halfway through the article his mouth began moving as he read. He kept staring after he had finished, then slowly raised his head. “He tried to have you killed?” he asked, in a quiet, shocked tone.
“That’s right.”
Henry blinked at that with real fear, as if I blamed him. The atmosphere had turned visceral and very personal. Which was exactly how I felt about dying.
I had Carr’s full attention. “You’ve got fraud, you’ve got this”-I pointed at the newspaper-“and you’ve got a man named Lehman who was killed in Boston two weeks ago.” Henry tugged at his tie with sudden violence, like a man hanging himself. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Lehman, Mr. Henry?”
Carr wheeled on Henry, sudden, sharp eyes asking the question. Henry nodded.
Carr looked warily back to me. “Have I heard it all?” he asked in a voice that clearly hoped so.
“I think Lasko had Lehman killed.”
Carr removed his glasses, and looked them over. Then turned back to Henry. “Give him what he wants,” he said in a flat voice.
Henry stood then, rubbing his hands and maneuvering his mouth into an awful smile. “What would you like?” he asked me. His forced cheerful tone tried to suggest the conclusion of a tough but mutually pleasing loan negotiation.
I didn’t smile back. “What series of numbers would contain two digits-the number 95?”
“Our safe deposit boxes.”
“Fine. I’d like the signature card and entry records for number 95.”
Henry went for them himself. Carr stared silently out the window. I supposed it was hard to chat with someone who should be dead.
Henry came back a little out of breath and almost throwing the records on the table. I reached for the signature card, glancing at Henry. “This card shows the people who are authorized to enter the box, right?”
“That’s correct,” he nodded glumly.
I turned it over. Alexander Lehman’s boyish face looked up at me.
I pulled over the entry card. On July 24, Lehman had entered safe deposit box number 95. On July 28, he had returned again.
I stared for a moment at Lehman’s picture. Then I looked at Henry. “I’ll want these records,” I said.
He didn’t argue.
I left them in the conference room, looking somber, and walked past the vice-presidents and the cheerful Seminoles, out the door.
I took out my slip of paper with the words of Lehman’s memo, but I didn’t really need it. I had it memorized: “95-Move whole package across the street-J859020. Justice is blind.”
There was only one bank across the street. A large sign on an old cement building proclaimed “The Mariner Bank of Miami.” I went there.
Thirty-Three
The Mariner Bank was old, stodgy, and as reassuring as the U.S. Mint. The president’s suite was on the second floor. So I went there and asked for Mr. Glendenning. The starchy receptionist eyed me doubtfully, then dialed. A few minutes later Glendenning’s secretary appeared, a chubby, quick-stepping girl with that certain smile which conveys a total absence of warmth. I followed her out.
Glendenning sat behind a Louis the Fourteenth desk in an office filled with antiques. He rose quickly, shook my hand, and asked me to take a chair. I sat, taking quick note of him. He had a sharp badger face and a long straight nose. His clothes were perfect: grey pinstripe, breast pocket handkerchief and burgundy club tie, very subtle. I could see him shuffling bonds.
“How can be we of service?” he asked curiously.
I handed him my card. “I’m with the ECC. I’m working on a case which involves tracing laundered money. I think the money is here.”
Glendenning webbed his fingers in a reflective gesture. “What’s your basis for that?”
“I have confidential information and what I think is a safe deposit box number. The number should tell whether I’m right.”
“Well,” he pointed out, “it will show whether someone has a box here, at least. What’s the number?”
I pulled the slip out of my shirt pocket. “J859020.”
Glendenning’s lids dropped. “Did I count six digits?” he asked.
I repeated the number. “Six digits and the letter ‘J,’” I added.
“We have those numbers,” he said slowly. “On our safe deposit boxes.”
“What’s your record system?”
Glendenning was a man of precision. “Do you mean how does it work?” he clarified. I nodded, feeling edgy and impatient. “All right. We have a standard signature card for authorized access to the box.”
“What I’m getting at is this. I take it that only the people who’ve signed on the signature card could take anything out?”
He nodded approvingly; I had it right.
“OK,” I said. “What I want is the signature card for J859020.”
Glendenning’s mouth thrust forward, as if nibbling my request. He finally spoke. “I suppose it’s best to cooperate. You realize, Mr. Paget, that this bank has no means of knowing the source of anything that’s put in the box.” His sharp eyes underlined the point.
“I understand that.”
Glendenning unraveled his fingers, then stood abruptly. “I’ll look over the records, then give them to you. You can use our conference room.”
He steered me there, then vanished for the records. The room was deliberately impressive: brass chandeliers and an oversized conference table. The antique bookshelves were graced by leather volumes which I assumed were rare editions. None of that helped. I felt alone and out of place.
I fidgeted for twenty minutes or so, wanting to pace. The records were part of my answer. Finally I went to a window. I was staring absently when Glendenning’s secretary burst in. She held the signature card and looked flustered. I took the card.
Robert Catlow’s name and picture were on the signature card, with Lehman’s. The card showed Lehman’s first and only visit: July 28. Catlow had never come.
Glendenning was still in his office. “I want to look in the box,” I told him.
“I can’t do that,” he said. “First, you haven’t a subpoena. Second, it takes two keys to open our safe deposit boxes. The bank only has one; the owner has the other.”
“What if someone dies and you can’t find the key?”
“We have a locksmith drill it.”
“I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Glendenning. I can be back with a subpoena tomorrow. And if the contents of that box are gone, you’ve been part of something you wouldn’t touch with gloves on. I’ll tell you what’s in that box. Drill it, and see if I’m right. If I am, then I want your word no one gets in the box.”
Glendenning frowned, forehead creased. “All right, Mr. Paget. What do you think is in there?”
“One and a half million dollars,” I told him, “in unmarked bills.”
He called the locksmith.
I waited in the conference room, hoping I was right. Thirty minutes, then forty-five. I stared at Catlow’s signature card, trying to think ahead. There weren’t many choices. I needed to move, before Lasko traced me. I needed the memo. And I needed help.
Glendenning opened the door, looking very sober. “It’s all there,” he said, “in a brown briefcase.”