Page 23 of Calder Country

“Mrs. Weaver, this is Agent Hoover with the Bureau of Investigation. We have your father, Arthur Murchison, in custody.”

“My father?” Her pulse slammed. “Is he . . . all right?”

“He’s not injured, if that’s what you’re asking. But he’s being detained for a violation of the Volstead Act. When a U.S. Marshal arrives, he’ll be formally arrested.”

Ruby’s throat tightened, leaving her speechless for the moment. Her father was alive—blessed news. But he was in serious trouble. The Volstead Act, passed by Congress in 1919, lent teeth to the Eighteenth Amendment, which had put Prohibition in place. Barring some miracle, Art could be going to prison for several years. By the time his sentence was served, he would be an old man.

“Mrs. Weaver, are you there? Talk to me.” The agent’s voice was sharp, his speech rapid, firing words like bullets from a machine gun. His manner grated on Ruby’s raw nerves. For all she knew, he was about to have her arrested, too. She might be wise to catch the next train out of town. But she couldn’t desert her father when he needed her.

“I’m here,” she said. “I want to see my father.”

“That can be arranged. But only if you cooperate. You and I need to talk.”

“Talk where?” Was this some kind of trap? “How do I know I can trust you?” Ruby asked.

“You don’t have a choice. Go out the back door of the boardinghouse. There’ll be an automobile waiting for you. Do you understand?”

“As you say, what choice do I have?” She was liking the agent less and less. “It may take me a few minutes, but I’ll be there.”

He ended the call with a click. Back in her room, Ruby tied her shoes, pinned up her hair, and collected her cash and other small belongings in her handbag. Head high, she left the room, marched downstairs and through the kitchen to the back door.

The black car, a newer model with an enclosed cab, waited in the shadows next to the trash bins. The driver flashed an official-looking ID and opened the door without a word. His young face was expressionless, his manner almost military, except for the spotless gray suit he wore. Ruby sat erect on the edge of the back seat, her hands clasping her purse. Her father was alive—that was what mattered most. But what else was going to happen? They could both end up in prison, even dead.

The rear windows of the vehicle were covered; but the ride wasn’t a long one. The feel of the road and the faint sounds from outside told Ruby they were still in town.

The auto made a right-hand turn into a dark space and stopped. Ruby heard the rumble of a heavy overhead door sliding into place. Seconds later, the driver came around the car to open her door.

She stepped out into what appeared to be a garage or a small warehouse. Peering into the near darkness, she saw several vehicles as well as piled wooden crates—some of them bearing the maple leaf symbol of Canada. Were they seized contraband? Ruby was given no chance to ask.

The only light came from a dim bulb hanging above a closed door. The driver beckoned Ruby toward the door and opened it for her to pass into the kitchen beyond.

The room was simply furnished and spotlessly clean, with a new electric refrigerator—a motor mounted atop an icebox—standing against one wall. Three men in suits sat drinking coffee at a table covered with a red-checked oilcloth.

Young and clean-cut, the three remained seated as Ruby entered. Her eyes were drawn to the man at the head of the table. He was slight of build, with a head of dark, wiry hair and riveting eyes. As soon as he spoke, Ruby recognized the voice of Agent Hoover, the man who’d telephoned her.

“Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Weaver. Take that empty chair. We have some questions to ask you.”

“I’ll stand,” Ruby said. “And there’s no need to thank me. I’m only here because you said you have my father. Let me see him. If he’s all right, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. If you’ve lied to me, or if he’s been harmed—”

“Watch your tongue, Mrs. Weaver.” Another man at the table interrupted her. “You obviously don’t know who you’re talking to. Agent Hoover here has just been appointed director of the Bureau of Investigation. He’s a very important man, and I can assure you he doesn’t lie.”

“Thank you, Agent Hargrave,” Hoover said. “Now please stop wasting my time and sit down, Mrs. Weaver.”

“Not until you tell me where my father is.”

Hoover’s annoyance showed in his scowl. “Your father is in our custody. He is safe and well. But if you don’t cooperate, I can promise you’ll never see him again.”

“Then tell me what you want from me.”

“Sit down and listen.” He indicated the empty chair at the foot of the table. One of the men stood and pulled it out for her. Knees quivering, Ruby allowed herself to be seated.

“I’m a busy man.” Hoover machine-gunned his words. “But I’ve taken the time for a visit because Montana has become a hotbed of the smuggling trade, and it’s my job to stop it. It’s come to my attention that airplanes are being used here and elsewhere to transport and deliver illegal alcohol. Your father was arrested while making such a delivery. The maximum prison sentence for such an offense is ten years at hard labor.”

“Please—” Ruby broke, all defiance gone. “My father is a good man. And he’s no longer young. Ten years would kill him.”

“Just listen, Mrs. Weaver. Your father is willing to cooperate and tell us what he knows, which may get his sentence reduced. But his usefulness to us is limited because he can’t go back to flying for the mob. If we were to release him, the thugs he was working for would suspect him of colluding with us. Even if they let him live, they would never trust him again. And we wouldn’t be able to trust him either. That’s where you come in.”

Hoover took a cigarette out of a silver case, lit it with an engraved lighter, and exhaled a spiraling column of smoke. “You strike me as fairly intelligent for a woman, Mrs. Weaver. Have you guessed where this discussion is going?”

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