Chapter 4: Croft Cornered

The federal marshals securing the Delmarva storage vaults bought us a sliver of time, but the real test lay ahead. We needed more than just steel plates; we needed a witness. Silas Croft, the appraiser who’d notarized the fraudulent logs, was our weakest link.

“He’s the key, Daniel,” I told Albright the next morning, huddled over lukewarm coffee in his office. “He signed those documents. He knows what Hallowell did.”

Albright chewed on his lip. “Going after a civilian without a formal warrant will be tricky. But you’re right, his testimony would be invaluable.”

“He has a private office downtown,” I said. “On Walnut Street. I’ll go myself. You stay here and coordinate with the marshals.”

Albright looked at me, a sixty-two-year-old man, still willing to chase down a lead. He nodded slowly. “Be careful, Walter. Croft isn’t known for being a cooperative type.”

I took a trolley car downtown, the streets bustling with wartime activity. People hurried past, newsboys shouted headlines about the Pacific, oblivious to the quiet storm brewing beneath the city’s surface. Croft’s office was on the third floor of an old, brick building, tucked between a tailor and a stationery shop.

The name “SILAS CROFT – MARITIME APPRAISALS” was painted in faded gold leaf on the frosted glass door. I pushed it open.

The office was surprisingly elegant, for a man involved in such a sordid affair. Dark wood paneling, a large mahogany desk, and a faint smell of pipe tobacco. Croft, a portly man with thinning grey hair and a meticulously trimmed mustache, sat behind the desk. He was hunched over a large ledger, a shredder whirring softly in the corner of the room.

He looked up, startled, as I stepped inside. His eyes, small and beady, darted to the ledger, then to me. A faint tremor ran through his hand as he closed the book with a snap.

“Walter Higgins,” he said, feigning surprise. “To what do I owe this… unexpected visit?”

He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze kept flicking to the shredder.

“I think you know why I’m here, Mr. Croft,” I said, stepping closer to his desk. I kept my voice calm, but my blood was cold. “Those notarized stress-test documents for Delmarva Shipbuilding. They’re fake.”

Croft’s face paled. He licked his lips nervously. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m merely an appraiser. I verify paperwork.”

“You notarized tests for steel that was never properly heat-treated,” I countered, my voice rising slightly. “You signed off on lives, Mr. Croft. For frigates going into the North Atlantic.”

He pushed himself back in his chair, his hands fumbling with a pen. “This is highly irregular, Mr. Higgins. I’m a respected professional.”

“Respected professionals don’t notarize fraudulent documents for millions of dollars,” I shot back, leaning across his desk, my eyes fixed on the ledger he’d snapped shut. “Tell me, Mr. Croft, how much did Hallowell pay you to betray your conscience?”

His facade crumbled. He stammered, his gaze flicking to the shredder again, then back to me. A bead of sweat formed on his upper lip.

“Fifty… fifty thousand dollars,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Paid to me directly. To sign off on the substandard steel heat treatments.”

My breath hitched. Fifty thousand dollars. In 1944. A staggering sum. It explained his expensive office, his demeanor. It didn’t explain the callous disregard for human lives.

“Fifty thousand dollars for lives,” I repeated, letting the words hang in the air, a bitter taste in my mouth. “And now, Mr. Croft, you’re going to tell us everything.”