Crang Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Jack Batten

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СКАЧАТЬ said, “Ace Disposal doesn’t sound like it ranks up there with the blue-chippers.”

      “I’m aware of that, Mr. Crang.”

      Wansborough’s voice had a snap to it. For all his prissiness, he didn’t strike me as anybody’s pushover. When he rode to hounds, I’d put my money on him as first rider to the fox every time. He had a squared-off face and jutting eyebrows and he was as tall as I, five eleven or so, and heavier, over two hundred pounds. I’m built along the lines of yon Cassius. Lean and hungry.

      “What about the aberration, Mr. Wansborough?” I said. “Why Ace Disposal? And what is an Ace Disposal?”

      “The investment was to show support for my cousin,” Wansborough said. “I advanced $300,000 four years ago last February. My cousin wished to buy into a company as a working partner and chose Ace Disposal for the purpose. The investment made the family a minority shareholder and obtained my cousin a vice-presidency. Ace’s business, as far as that is concerned, is in transporting waste from construction sites to municipal dumps. Its assets consist of a great many large trucks and a maintenance area here in the city. In the first two years after my investment, the company showed negligible profits, as I rather expected would be the case. Beginning in the second quarter last year, however, it has yielded what I consider a disproportionately high profit. That puzzles me.”

      “Let’s go back to your cousin,” I said. “What’s he have to say about the new bonanza?”

      “She, Mr. Crang,” Wansborough said. “My cousin is Alice Brackley. On my mother’s side. She attributes the change to improved management. My cousin, I tell you this in confidence, has been the difficult member of the family. Intelligent enough for a woman but terribly stubborn. I believe she went into Ace Disposal to show she was as competent in business as any of the men in our family. Especially into such a business as Ace Disposal.”

      I said, “Headstrong.”

      Wansborough liked that. He said, “One doesn’t hear such an adjective these days.”

      “One doesn’t.”

      Wansborough said, “The change for the better in the company coincided with a new group purchasing a majority interest. A man named Grimaldi has been president for the past twenty months.”

      “Fine old Monacan name.”

      “That would be another branch of the family,” Wansborough said. The snap was back in his voice.

      “Mr. Grimaldi has an expansive charm,” he said. “I concede that. And his operational manner is aggressive. He keeps the trucks on the road six days a week, that sort of thing. Charles is Mr. Grimaldi’s first name, and certainly my cousin praises his person and his methods. But he is in my view evasive when I inquire into the company’s recent success. So is Alice. I have never read the company books.”

      I swivelled around to face Wansborough and put on my summing-up look.

      “What we have here,” I said, “is an outfit doing better business than you think it should and an executive officer who isn’t to your taste.”

      Wansborough’s head made a brusque nod.

      I said, “ And you’re retaining me to ease your mind about both.”

      Another nod. I was a whiz at synthesizing information. I said, “At the worst, you want to know if there’s hanky-panky.”

      Wansborough said, “Mr. Catalano said you have had previous experience in the sort of inquiry we’re discussing.”

      “Tom’s talking fraud,” I said. “One of McIntosh, Brown’s corporate clients, big printing firm, it developed a leak in its treasury. The company was coming up a few hundred thousand short and nobody could find the hole. Catalano hired me to poke around on the quiet. Turned out the two women at the top of the accounting department, longtime employees, much beloved by all, were running a sweet racket. They invented employees on paper. Gave them names, social security numbers, bank accounts. Put them on the tax roll, handed out T-4s, filed their income tax returns in the spring. And every week they issued pay cheques to the employees’ bank accounts. Except the employees were paper people and the two old darlings ended up with the cash.”

      Wansborough’s lips did their pursing number.

      I said, “In accounting parlance, that’s called a dead-horse fraud.”

      Wansborough’s face looked tight.

      “Don’t take it as a precedent,” I said. “Your problem doesn’t sound in the same league.”

      I couldn’t tell whether I’d reassured Wansborough. He left the office and I watched him from my window. He was walking east on Queen behind a girl with a haircut I’d last seen on William Bendix in Wake Island.

      1

      STREETS WHERE BIG FINANCIERS take care of their financing are narrow. Wall Street, Threadneedle Street, Bay Street.

      After Wansborough left, I rode a Queen streetcar over to Bay, got on a trolley bus headed south, and sat in the traffic. Bay is two lanes wide each way and lined with buildings where stockbrokers and money men make deals. Delivery trucks park in no-stopping zones. Cabs pick up fares. It takes ten minutes to travel a block. I watched a spruce old party in a white seersucker suit and a panama hat totter down the front steps of the National Club. Bet he’d had a swell day—a couple of gimlets at lunch, a few games of hearts with his cronies, some reminiscing over the good old days in killer financing, and now it was home, James, for a nap. The bus broke free of the scrimmage at Front Street and made time under the tunnel by Union Station and through the scramble of east-west expressways near the Lakeshore. I got out at Queen’s Quay and walked a block east to the Toronto Star building.

      It doesn’t look like a newspaper building. It looks like insurance salesmen or government clerks lurk within. But whatever architect did the cookie-cutter job on the design, he couldn’t mess with the smell. It was there when I pushed through the revolving door, the smell of newsprint. It’s a smell of promise, maybe only the promise of news but that’s good enough. I like it when newsprint rubs off on my hands. I remember when the old Toronto Telegram was printed in pink editions. The type still rubbed off black. Do young people get the same kicks these days? Do videos have a homey smell? Do ghetto blasters rub off on their hands?

      I took the elevator to the fifth, the editorial floor, and walked around a couple of corners to the library. I asked a clerk who’d done favours for me in the past for the news clippings on Ace Disposal Services. She punched into the wall of big mechanical drawers where all Star stories are filed in brown envelopes in tidy alphabetical order. Nope, she said, nothing under Ace Disposal. I asked her to try disposal services. Drew another blank. Waste? Zip. Garbage? Bingo city.

      It wasn’t much. I sat at a table in the library and read a two-part series from six months earlier about organized crime and the garbage business. The lead paragraph in part one announced mighty revelations to follow, but what the series delivered was a few thousand words of generalities. It leaned on those two familiar dancing partners, unnamed sources and police spokesmen. Unnamed sources disclosed that crime syndicates, looking to launder their profits from drugs, loan-sharking, strippers, and the like, were dropping money into the private garbage industry. Police spokesmen hinted at signs of gang infiltration of said industry. No specifics, no numbers. Ace Disposal made the series twice, both times as “the СКАЧАТЬ