Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Read online

  There was another message from Henry Osborne, still leaving no clue as to who he was. There was only one way to find out. Abel called Osborne, who turned out to be a claims inspector with the Great Western Casualty Insurance Company, with which the hotel had its policy. Abel made an appointment to see Osborne at noon. He then called William Kane in Boston and gave him a report on the hotels he had visited in the group.

  “And may I say again, Mr. Kane, that I could turn those hotels’ losses into profits if your bank would give me the time and the backing. What I did in Chicago I know I can do for the rest of the group.”

  “Possibly you could, Mr. Rosnovski, but I fear it will not be with Kane and Cabot’s money. May I remind you that you have only a few days left in which to find a backer. Good day, sir.”

  “Ivy League snob,” said Abel into the deaf telephone. “I’m not classy enough for your money, am I? Someday, you bastard …”

  The next item on Abel’s agenda was the insurance man. Henry Osborne turned out to be a tall, good-looking man with dark eyes and a mop of dark hair just turning gray. Abel found his easy manner congenial. Osborne had little to add to Lieutenant O’Malley’s story. The Great Western Casualty Insurance Company had no intention of paying any part of the claim while the police were pressing for a charge of arson against Desmond Pacey and until it was proved that Abel himself was in no way involved. Henry Osborne seemed to be very understanding about the whole problem.

  “Has the Richmond Group enough money to rebuild the hotel?” asked Osborne.

  “Not a red cent,” said Abel. “The rest of the group is mortgaged up to the hilt and the bank is pressing me to sell.”

  “Why you?” said Osborne.

  Abel explained how he had come to own the group’s shares without actually owning the hotels. Henry Osborne seemed somewhat surprised.

  “Surely the bank can see for themselves how well you ran this hotel? Every businessman in Chicago is aware that you were the first manager ever to make a profit for Davis Leroy. I realize the banks are going through hard times, but even they ought to know when to make an exception for their own good.”

  “Not this bank.”

  “Continental Trust?” said Osborne. “I’ve always found old Curtis Fenton a bit starchy but amenable enough.”

  “It’s not Continental. The hotels are owned by a Boston bank called Kane and Cabot.”

  Henry Osborne went white and sank back in his chair.

  “Are you all right?” asked Abel.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You don’t by any chance know Kane and Cabot?”

  “Off the record?” said Henry Osborne.

  “Sure.”

  “Yes, my company had to deal with them once before in the past.” He seemed to be hesitating. “And we ended up having to take them to court.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t reveal the details. A messy business—let’s just say one of the directors was not totally honest and open with us.”

  “Which one?” asked Abel.

  “Which one did you have to deal with?” Osborne inquired.

  “A man named William Kane.”

  Osborne seemed to hesitate again. “Be careful,” he said. “He’s the world’s meanest son of a bitch. I can give you the lowdown on him if you want it, but that would be strictly between us.”

  “I certainly owe him no favors,” said Abel. “I may well be in touch with you, Mr. Osborne. I have a score to settle with young Mr. Kane for his treatment of Davis Leroy.”

  “Well, you can count on me to help in any way I can if William Kane is involved,” said Henry Osborne, rising from behind his desk, “but that must be strictly between us. And if the court shows that Desmond Pacey burned the Richmond and no one else was involved, the company will pay up the same day. Then perhaps we can do additional business with your other hotels.”

  “Perhaps,” said Abel.

  He walked back to the Stevens and decided to have lunch and find out for himself how well the main dining room was run. There was another message at the desk for him. A Mr. David Maxton wondered if Abel was free to join him for lunch at one.

  “David Maxton,” Abel said out loud, and the receptionist looked up. “Why do I know that name?” he asked the staring girl.

  “He owns this hotel, Mr. Rosnovski.”

  “Ah, yes. Please let Mr. Maxton know that I shall be delighted to have lunch with him.” Abel glanced at his watch. “And would you tell him that I may be a few minutes late?”

  “Certainly, sir,” said the girl.

  Abel went quickly up to his room and changed into a new white shirt while wondering what David Maxton could possibly want.

  The dining room was already packed when Abel arrived. The headwaiter showed him to a private table in an alcove where the owner of the Stevens was sitting alone. He rose to greet Abel.

  “Abel Rosnovski, sir.”

  “Yes, I know you,” said Maxton, “or, to be more accurate, I know you by reputation. Do sit down and let’s order lunch.”

  Abel was compelled to admire the Stevens. The food and the service were every bit as good as the Plaza. If he was to have the best hotel in Chicago, he knew it would have to be better than this one.

  The headwaiter reappeared with menus. Abel studied his carefully, politely declined a first course and selected the beef, the quickest way to tell if a restaurant is dealing with the right butcher. David Maxton did not look at his menu and simply ordered the salmon. The headwaiter hurried away.

  “You must be wondering why I invited you to join me for lunch, Mr. Rosnovski.”

  “I assumed,” said Abel, laughing, “you were going to ask me to take over the Stevens for you.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Rosnovski.”

  Abel was speechless. It was Maxton’s turn to laugh. Even the arrival of their waiter wheeling a trolly of the finest beef did not help. The carver waited. Maxton squeezed lemon over his salmon and continued.

  “My manager is due to retire in five months after twenty-two years of loyal service and the assistant manager is also due for retirement very soon afterwards, so I’m looking for a new broom.”

  “Place looks pretty clean to me,” said Abel.

  “I’m always willing to improve, Mr. Rosnovski. Never be satisfied with standing still,” said Maxton. “I’ve been watching your activities carefully. It wasn’t until you took the Richmond over that it could even be classified as a hotel. It was a huge flophouse before that. In another two or three years, you would have been a rival to the Stevens if some fool hadn’t burned the place down before you were given the chance.”

  “Potatoes, sir?”

  Abel looked up at a very attractive junior waitress. She smiled at him.

  “No, thank you,” he said to her. “Well, I’m very flattered, Mr. Maxton, both by your comments and the offer.”

  “I think you’d be happy here, Mr. Rosnovski. The Stevens is a well-run hotel and I would be willing to start you off at fifty dollars a week and two percent of the profits. You could start as soon as you like.”

  “I’ll need a few days to think over your generous offer, Mr. Maxton,” said Abel, “but I confess I am very tempted. Nevertheless, I still have a few problems left over from the Richmond.”

  “String beans, sir?” The same waitress, and the same smile.

  The face looked familiar. Abel felt sure he had seen her somewhere before. Perhaps she had once worked at the Richmond.

  “Yes, please.”

  He watched her walk away. There was something about her.

  “Why don’t you stay on at the hotel as my guest for a few days,” Maxton asked, “and see how we run the place? It may help you make your decision.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Maxton. After only one day as a guest here I knew how well the hotel is run. My problem is that I own the Richmond Group.”

  David Maxton’s face registered surprise. “I had no idea,” he said. “I assumed old Dav