The Bootlegger (Isaac Bell 7)
Page 132
“About Prince André?”
“No. But there was something else I wanted to ask about him. I was wondering how a refugee survives suddenly losing . . . all this . . . comfort, I guess, that privileged people like you and I take for granted.” He gestured at her yacht, the gleaming brightwork, the polished brass, the attentive stewards. “That Prince André took for granted. What do you suppose is his greatest strength?”
“He’s an optimist.”
• • •
THREE VAN DORN DETECTIVES—Adler, Kliegman, and Marcum, dressed like auditors in vested suits, bowler hats, and wire-rimmed glasses, and carrying green eyeshades in their bulging briefcases—paused before entering the Wall Street brokerage house of Storms & Storms to observe the Morgan Building, where the cops had found Detective Warren’s gold badge. Other than some shrapnel gouges in the marble wall, there was no sign of the unsolved bombing.
They addressed their old friend as if he were alive. “Hang on a moment longer, Harry, we’re going to get some back.”
• • •
THE BLUE-UNIFORMED GUARD at the front door ushered them in with a respectful bow.
Senior partner Newtown Storms’s secretary was less easily impressed.
“Whom do you gentlemen represent?”
“Adler, Kliegman & Marcum,” said Adler.
“I’m not familiar with your firm.”
“We are auditors. Our clients include the Enforcement Division of the Internal Revenue Service.”
“What business do you have with Mr. Storms?”
“Income tax evasion.”
“Mr. Storms has paid his taxes.”
“A client of his has not.”
That got them into Storms’s office. The patrician stockbroker kept them standing in front of his rosewood desk while he fingered their business cards, which were so freshly printed, Adler could smell the ink.
“Let me set you straight, gentlemen. I am not a government official. It is not my job to collect income taxes.”
Adler asked, “Is it your job to help your clients evade taxes?”
“Of course not. It is my job to help my clients minimize their taxes.”
Kliegman spoke up. “Minimizing. A slippery slope to the depths of evasion.”
“Particularly,” Adler said, “when enormous transactions are made with cash.”
“Cash is honest,” Storms shot back. “Cash deters excessive spending. People think twice when they have to count it out on the barrel-head instead of blithely scribbling a check in the hopes their banker covers their overdraft. Cash backed by gold. That’s my motto.”
The three detectives stood silent as bronze statues.
Storms asked, “Are you inquiring about a particular client of mine? Or are you just fishing?”
“Prince André.”
That got them invitations to sit down. Storms looked considerably less sure of himself. When his voice tube whistled, he jerked off the cap and growled, “Do not disturb me.”
“How rich is he?” Adler asked bluntly.
“Prince André is a wealthy man. He was wealthy before the market took off like a Roman candle, and he is wealthier now. And I assure you that, come next April 15, he will pay his fair taxes on his earnings in the market.”