“That answers your question all right,” Ferrant said. “The lad is definitely losing money.” He lined up his stacks of notes. “Odd how much cargo he’s been carrying for Eudora Grain the last five years. Almost twenty percent of his total volume.”

“Odd indeed,” I said. “Of course, Eudora’s a big concern … Where’s Grafalk been coming up with the money to cover these losses? They’re pretty staggering.”

“The steamship company isn’t the only thing he owns.” Ferrant was sweeping the policies back into their jackets. “There’s a profitable railway that connects the Port of Buffalo with Baltimore—he can unload there and ship by rail to oceangoing vessels in Baltimore. That does very well for him. His family owns a big block of stock in Hansen Electronic, the computer firm. You’d have to see if you could get his broker to tell you whether he’s been selling off the stock to pay for this. He’s into a number of other things. I think his wife has some money, too. But the steamship company has always been his first love.”

We piled the policies back into the cart and left it in the hallway for someone to take care of in the morning. I yawned and stretched and offered to buy Ferrant a drink.

Chapter 25

The Old Girl Network

He walked with me to the Golden Glow on Jackson and Federal. It’s a place for serious drinkers—no quiche and celery sticks to entice imbibers of white wine on their way to the commuter trains. Sal, the magnificent black woman who owns the place, has a mahogany horseshoe-shaped bar, relic of an old Cyrus McCormick mansion, and seven tiny booths crammed into a space wedged out between a bank and an insurance company.

I hadn’t been in for several weeks and she came over to our booth herself for our order. I asked for my usual, a Johnnie Walker Black up, and Ferrant had a gin martini. I asked Sal for the use of a phone and she brought one over to the table for me.

My answering service told me Adrienne Gallagher, the woman I know at the Fort Dearborn Trust, had called. She’d left her home number and a message that I could call before ten.

A little girl answered the phone and called her mommy in a shrill voice.

“Hello, Vic. I got the information you wanted.”

“I hope they’re not trying to fire you or disbar you.”

She gave a little laugh. “No—but you owe me some free detective work. Anyway, the condominium is owned by a Niels Grafalk—Vic? Are you there? Hello?”

“Thank, Adrienne,” I said mechanically. “Let me know when you need the detective work.”