Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
Читать онлайн книгу.
truth out of the man.
“You can’t expect me to run a story that quotes Securities Commission investigators as saying: ‘Trust us.’ You gotta give me something, Dick!”
“The phrase, ‘Trust us’ has not been used,” Kurster pointed out. “I would put it this way: the investigation has reached a delicate stage.”
Grant rolled his eyes and exhaled noisily. He snapped shut his notebook. Kurster was playing poker. It was time to see if he was bluffing. Grant resorted to the time-honoured reporter’s ploy of a personal appeal. He dropped the role of interviewer and assumed that of friend and boon companion: no mean feat, given his interviewing style.
“Listen, Dick,” he said, imitating Kurster’s body language by putting his hands over his head, pressing his greasy, blond hair flat. “This is pointless. Off the record: tell me what the hell’s going on. Have you guys just reached a dead-end?”
Kurster smiled a tight little smile and sat up, arms folded across his chest.
“Off the record? Just between you and me?” he asked.
“My lips are sealed. Shoot.”
“You did not hear this from me,” said Kurster. “You will go to jail before you reveal me as a source.”
“Agreed.”
“It’s like this,” said Kurster, picking up a sheaf of paper from his desk and slowly sorting through it. “The authorities in Jakarta have found details surrounding the transaction in question that put a new light on things.”
“You’re still prancing around with words,” said Grant, leaning forward. “Straight goods: what’s up?”
Kurster eyed Grant closely, assessing both him and possible outcome of what he was about to say. Grant knew his obtuse friend was merely grappling for a diplomatic way of letting him know what was going on. Speaking straight did not come naturally to Dick Kurster, but neither did allowing Grant or any other reporter to print stories critical of the Securities Commission. It was one of the reasons why he remained employed.
“The preliminary evidence suggests that someone other than Schuster was involved in the transaction in question,” Kurster said. “Someone close to Schuster himself. Someone with … how shall I put this? With interests other than those strictly monetary? Do I make myself clear?”
Grant turned this over in his mind for a moment. Someone close to Schuster. Interests other than those strictly monetary. He ran through the list of players in his mind and the face of Cosmo Lavirtue immediately swam into focus.
“What interests?” he asked Kurster. “Personal interests?”
“My lips are sealed,” said Kurster with a grin. “Unfortunately, someone else’s lips weren’t.”
The implications in Kurster’s leering tone were unmistakable.
“You’re telling me someone close to Schuster was fooling around with his wife? Is that it?” asked Grant cautiously.
“It is possible that the arrangement was the other way around, Mister Grant,” grinned Kurster. “But no, clearly that is a possibility that has come to the attention of the authorities both in Jakarta and Vancouver.”
Grant put a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. This wasn’t good at all.
“If we head down this road,” he said, eyes still closed. “I can see a couple of problems. Problem one, if there’s an affair involved, it makes it much more likely Sam Schuster was murdered, right?”
“I can’t fault your reasoning. And we’re still strictly off the record.”
“But what about the insurance policy?”
Kurster leaned back in his chair again, pressing his hands together, fingertips pushing against each other with light pressure.
“One may theorize — and it is merely theory at this point — one may theorize that a man who has reason to fear for his life might take out such a policy, just in case.”
Grant groaned. He opened his eyes and stared at Kurster, appalled.
“Dick, I got no story.”
“Yes, you do,” said Kurster. “Look, it’s simple. I can’t tell you anything, but there are other sources.”
“Like who?”
“Like the police.”
“I don’t know that many cops. Besides, they’ve handed the thing to the Commercial Crime team.”
“You could always get that hot-shot cop reporter pal of yours to make a few calls. What’s his name? Jinner?”
“Jinnah,” Grant said stiffly. “Forget it. I’ll make my own calls.”
Grant stood up. Kurster showed him to the door.
“I wish I could be a bit more helpful, Gerald, but you know how it is — wouldn’t want to jeopardize the investigation, would we?”
“Yeah, right,” Grant said, pausing at the door. “Listen, Dick, one more thing, just between you and me?”
“Shoot.”
“If I run the name Cosmo Lavirtue past the cops, would that jeopardize the investigation?”
Kurster had looked vaguely impressed.
“That would be irresponsible, rampant speculation without any basis in official information and I would be forced to denounce it in the most strident manner if asked by other media to confirm it.”
Grant smiled a little.
“So it wouldn’t be wrong then?”
Kurster answered with a lecherous grin and patted Gerald Dixon Grant on the back. That was all the confirmation Grant had needed.
Unfortunately for Grant, it wasn’t enough for Blacklock. The editor-in-chief took one look at his story on Grant’s screen and spiked it electronically.
“What’s wrong with it?” Grant railed.
“Nothing, if you want to endure a very long, very successful libel suit, Mister Grant,” Blacklock replied. “Cosmo Lavirtue would be able to retire off the proceeds.”
“But he’s the one, I’m sure!” Grant spluttered. “Kurster as much as told me —”
“Nothing on the record,” Blacklock said, hitting the send key, shipping Grant’s prose to the purgatory of the hold cue. “You don’t even have a quote from the constabulary to back this up.”
This stung Grant. He’d assumed that all he had to do was phone up Sergeant Graham, tell him he knew all about Cosmo Lavirtue and the affair with Schuster’s widow and the policeman would spill his guts. But for some reason Graham — who had been so helpful just a day ago — had not been co-operative.
“Reporters!” he had hollered down the phone at Grant. “You all think you know so much! Why don’t you just go sit in the seventh circle of hell reserved for your kind?”
Grant didn’t know that Graham had just had Jinnah walk out of his office.
“I couldn’t get hold of anybody!” Grant lied. “Where the hell is Jinnah?”
“I have no idea,” Blacklock said, rising heavily to his feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mister Grant, I have important matters to attend to.”
Blacklock huffed and wheezed his way over to the city desk where Peter “Permafrost” Frost was waiting for instructions regarding the front page.
“Grant is a no-go,” he advised Frost. “Put the stuff from Sanderson on front for second edition.”
“You’re sure he’ll have something for second?” Frost asked.
“He’d