Credit Company in Jackson Park, the single account that was keeping me afloat these days. The thought of a piece of the Dillinger reward money coming my way hung in the hot air in front of me, like laundry on a line.
Just around noon, when I was thinking about going downstairs to the deli for a pastrami sandwich, a big moonfaced man of about thirty-five in a gray hat and a gray suit and a gray tie came in. His complexion was a little gray, too—that hot ball of sun that had been baking Chicago for days upon end hadn’t got to him yet, it would seem.
“Mr. Heller,” he said, taking off his hat. His dark brown hair was longer on top than on its graying sides.
“Yes?” I said, half-rising.
“I’m Sam Cowley. With the Division of Investigation.” He moved forward with a tight, somber expression and extended a hand. I rose the rest of the way to take it, then motioned for him to have a seat.
“Mind if I take off my coat?” he asked. Apparently the sun had got to him a bit.
I said sure. Since I wasn’t wearing a coat myself, this piece of protocol struck me as excessive, but sincere—unlike smoothie Zarkovich, who used manners and charm as devices, Cowley was just a big heavyset guy who seemed a little awkward having to deal with people.
Or at least with me.
“I understand you spoke with Chief Purvis yesterday,” he said. He had slipped the coat on the back of the chair. I’d misjudged him and the sun: the sweat circles on his shirt, under his arms, were like moons. They complemented his round face.
“I spoke with Chief Purvis,” I confirmed.
“He informs me you feel you may have seen John Dillinger.”
“That’s right.”
He moved his hat around in his hands, fingers on the brim like he was drying a plate. “We could use any information you might care to give us.”
“I’ve…reconsidered.”
“How so?”
I chose my words carefully. “I now feel I was hasty. I’ve had second thoughts about the likelihood that the man I saw was John Dillinger.”
Cowley made a small shrugging gesture with his head. “There have been some misidentifications. I can understand your caution.”
“Your associate Mr. Purvis—Chief Purvis—strikes me as a little too hot to trot, where Dillinger’s concerned. I’m afraid he’d shoot Aunt Jemima if you pointed at her and said, ‘There’s Johnny.’”
I thought I saw the faintest trace of a smile appear on Cowley’s lips, but he buried it. Said, “Chief Purvis is not alone on this investigation.”
“I know. Your boss Hoover sent you in to be a steadying influence. I read the papers.”
Cowley stirred in his chair. “That—that wasn’t in the papers, not in that manner.”
“I can read between the lines. Your boss seems real public-relations conscious to me. He couldn’t fire Purvis after Little Bohemia without making the division look bad; so he sent for you.”
Cowley waved a big deliberate paw in the air, said, “Be that as it may—I can assure you, any information you relay to our office—to me —will not be treated lightly, will not be acted upon rashly.”
He was choosing his words carefully, too. I leaned back in my chair; studied him. I instinctively liked this man. He was a big, shy bear who could be trusted. He struck me as competent, as well. But I was still afraid that his competence would only be canceled out by Purvis’ incompetence.
“I’m looking after a client’s interests,” I said. “And I don’t think my client’s interests would be best served by my getting further involved in this matter.”
Cowley’s face turned stern and he pointed a finger at me as thick as a twenty-five-cent cigar. “If you’re aiding and abetting a fugitive, Mr. Heller, you can’t hide behind the cloak of your profession. You’re not a lawyer. Just a private operator. You’ll go to jail.”
“Inspector Cowley,” I said, with what I hoped was a peacemaking smile, “I’m not harboring a fugitive. My client is not John
Just around noon, when I was thinking about going downstairs to the deli for a pastrami sandwich, a big moonfaced man of about thirty-five in a gray hat and a gray suit and a gray tie came in. His complexion was a little gray, too—that hot ball of sun that had been baking Chicago for days upon end hadn’t got to him yet, it would seem.
“Mr. Heller,” he said, taking off his hat. His dark brown hair was longer on top than on its graying sides.
“Yes?” I said, half-rising.
“I’m Sam Cowley. With the Division of Investigation.” He moved forward with a tight, somber expression and extended a hand. I rose the rest of the way to take it, then motioned for him to have a seat.
“Mind if I take off my coat?” he asked. Apparently the sun had got to him a bit.
I said sure. Since I wasn’t wearing a coat myself, this piece of protocol struck me as excessive, but sincere—unlike smoothie Zarkovich, who used manners and charm as devices, Cowley was just a big heavyset guy who seemed a little awkward having to deal with people.
Or at least with me.
“I understand you spoke with Chief Purvis yesterday,” he said. He had slipped the coat on the back of the chair. I’d misjudged him and the sun: the sweat circles on his shirt, under his arms, were like moons. They complemented his round face.
“I spoke with Chief Purvis,” I confirmed.
“He informs me you feel you may have seen John Dillinger.”
“That’s right.”
He moved his hat around in his hands, fingers on the brim like he was drying a plate. “We could use any information you might care to give us.”
“I’ve…reconsidered.”
“How so?”
I chose my words carefully. “I now feel I was hasty. I’ve had second thoughts about the likelihood that the man I saw was John Dillinger.”
Cowley made a small shrugging gesture with his head. “There have been some misidentifications. I can understand your caution.”
“Your associate Mr. Purvis—Chief Purvis—strikes me as a little too hot to trot, where Dillinger’s concerned. I’m afraid he’d shoot Aunt Jemima if you pointed at her and said, ‘There’s Johnny.’”
I thought I saw the faintest trace of a smile appear on Cowley’s lips, but he buried it. Said, “Chief Purvis is not alone on this investigation.”
“I know. Your boss Hoover sent you in to be a steadying influence. I read the papers.”
Cowley stirred in his chair. “That—that wasn’t in the papers, not in that manner.”
“I can read between the lines. Your boss seems real public-relations conscious to me. He couldn’t fire Purvis after Little Bohemia without making the division look bad; so he sent for you.”
Cowley waved a big deliberate paw in the air, said, “Be that as it may—I can assure you, any information you relay to our office—to me —will not be treated lightly, will not be acted upon rashly.”
He was choosing his words carefully, too. I leaned back in my chair; studied him. I instinctively liked this man. He was a big, shy bear who could be trusted. He struck me as competent, as well. But I was still afraid that his competence would only be canceled out by Purvis’ incompetence.
“I’m looking after a client’s interests,” I said. “And I don’t think my client’s interests would be best served by my getting further involved in this matter.”
Cowley’s face turned stern and he pointed a finger at me as thick as a twenty-five-cent cigar. “If you’re aiding and abetting a fugitive, Mr. Heller, you can’t hide behind the cloak of your profession. You’re not a lawyer. Just a private operator. You’ll go to jail.”
“Inspector Cowley,” I said, with what I hoped was a peacemaking smile, “I’m not harboring a fugitive. My client is not John
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