Wednesday, October 16th, 1935
I had spent the afternoon drowning my sorrows at Harry’s Paradise Tavern. Unfortunately–or fortunately, depending on your perspective–, my sorrows were powerful swimmers. The primary trouble I was experiencing at the moment was a shortage of the coin of the realm, owing to a lack of clients for my private investigation agency. Harry Bittles, my part-time shrink, full-time bartender, was letting me imbibe on the cuff.
The barkeep drew up across the bar from me. “Another one, Gil?” His face didn’t register any regret over what my answer might be.
“Am I good for it?” It had been quite a while since I’d gathered my friend’s promise of drinks on the house, if I ever needed them. His offer had been in response to my assistance with a problem involving his now former wife. Despite my reluctance to take the man up on his proposition, I required them today.
He leaned toward me and spoke in a hushed tone. “After your help with what’s-her-name, brother, you’ve got carte blanche, as the highbrows say,” he offered earnestly.
I smiled at his reply. One reason was my pal steadfastly refused to utter his ex-wife’s name. Ever. It was Blanche. That carte blanche comment was as close as he’d come since the job I had completed for him recovering his nest egg she’d run off with. A second cause for my grin was I definitely wanted another drink. “Sure. Another.”
A few minutes later, I was still nursing my Jack Daniels when a fella I knew joined me on the adjacent stool. Murray Hertz was a bail bondsman I’d done a bit of work for from time to time. The usually dapper fellow was somewhat disheveled. The knot of his silk striped necktie was loosened and hung a couple of inches below his Arrow collar. He was sweating like a whore in church, despite the cool fall weather we were enjoying. The man wearily dropped his Borsalino on the bar.
Murray Hertz was a bail bondsman I’d done a bit of work for from time to time.
My companion nodded. “I figured I’d find you here when you weren’t in your office.” My reputation preceded me as usual. After his brief greeting, the businesslike Murray moved straight to the point of his visit. “There’s a schlemiel named Nick Shane who’s taken it on the lam after I bonded him out of jail. I’m on the hook for three G’s bail, Gil, and I really need your help.”
The keen-eared Harry overheard Hertz’s remarks and happily ambled along the bar to our location. The proprietor of the tavern was a great friend, but was obviously pleased to find I might have a paying client. I could tell by the way his unlit stogie danced between his lips, from one side of his mouth to the other and back. This clue could either mean happiness or anxiety on my friend’s part. The difference was the shape of the kisser holding the cigar. This time, it was a smile. “What’ll you have, sport?” Murray had been in the joint before. But he wasn’t what you’d call a regular the owner knew by name.
“I. W. Harper. Neat.” Hertz, surely aware of the bottler’s history, supported his tribe at every opportunity. He followed a vague hand gesture by adding, “Make it a double.”
While Harry poured, I sought more information from my client. “You think he’s somewhere in the city?”
Shaking his head, he surmised, “Nah. I figure he’s skipped town, Gil. But I’m not certain.”
“Why not just turn it over to the coppers?” I suggested. “They can send the word out and get him picked up.”
“Uh-uh.” My friend shifted uneasily on his seat and took a long slug of his drink. When he looked back at me, his face showed an anxiety which wasn’t normal for him, even in his racket. “I don’t have that kind of time, Gil. The judge is putting pressure on me to deliver the bum quick or forfeit the bond. He’s being a horse’s ass about the thing. I’ve got ‘til Monday the 28th at nine a.m. to have this crumb in the judge’s courtroom.” He exhaled audibly. “Besides, this is personal.”
The man’s last comment struck me as odd, but I let it pass. “It’s a big country, Murray,” I grumbled. When I was getting paid, traveling didn’t faze me if the job required it. But I’ve never been one who enjoyed chasing wild geese. Successfully completing investigations was my meat and potatoes.
“Twelve days is not much time to find somebody who’s skipped and doesn’t want to be found, especially if he’s left town.” My associate’s chin dropped to his chest. He released a discouraged moan. I patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong, my friend. I need the work. I’ll take the job. But my question remains the same. Why not just hand this off to the law and let them handle it?”
He leaned back in his seat and turned his head to me. “And my answer continues to be the same. I don’t have the time for the police here to take it in hand or to notify the coppers wherever. Police here or in another city who may be overworked where this is something they’ll get to when they can.”
Hertz was correct from the standpoint law enforcement rarely put running down fugitives, at least those who weren’t on the “most wanted” list, at the top of their agendas. “Fair enough. Then two more questions.” He nodded. “You think Nick Shane is his real name?”
My buddy shook his head. “His English is good, but there’s a strong hint of a German accent. I feel sure the name’s a phony. Perhaps anglicized. I don’t know. And before you ask, I’m in the dark regarding most of his personal habits, likes, and dislikes, which might help you find him. Was that your other question?”
I set fire to a Chesterfield and offered one to Hertz. He waved it off. “Nah, it wasn’t, but thanks. What’s the slug charged with?”
“Murder,” he answered softly. I’m pretty sure my face showed shock at the seriousness of a crime for which this Shane character could receive bail. And a relatively low one, at that. Before I could mount a response, the bondsman raised a hand in an impatient gesture. “He killed a man. Beat the hell out of him.” After signaling for another round, he cut me off again. “Look, the lummox’s boss, Phillip Jablonski, came to my office and told me they’d wrongfully accused the kid.” I knew the man’s name. He owned the biggest machine shop and metal works operation in the city. “Jablonski,” Murray elaborated, “said the case was so bad, the judge had granted a bond. His employer wanted Nick out because he was a good, steady employee with an engineer-like mind. But he didn’t have the ready cash to go the bond himself.”
“Spare me the soft soap, Hertz. The bottom line is you paid to get this thug out even though he’s charged with murder?”
“That’s right. That’s right.” Hertz’s voice raised defensively as he ticked off on his fingers the bases for his action. “Well, for one thing, he had a good job with a boss who took it upon himself to come talk to me. Second, the home address he produced is a decent apartment building. Nothing fancy, mind you, but nice, respectable. Third, he had no criminal history. Fourth, when I met with Shane, he convinced me he was innocent. He maintained it was a case of mistaken identity, possibly even prejudice, because he’s a foreigner. I believed him.
“Finally, I went to talk to the judge who gave him bail. He refused to see me. So I spoke to the clerk of court. He told me his honor granted my client bail because the evidence was so flimsy–not enough to dismiss the charges, but weak. That’s why he made bail through me. Besides, if not me, someone else would’ve done it,” he shrugged. “And in this economy, every bit helps.” He sat back and said nothing more immediately.
Hertz was a shrewd businessman. But something was gnawing at my insides. “And then he pulled a disappearing act.” He jerked a nod dejectedly. “When did you find that out?”
“Part of my going his bail was the condition he’d report to me at my office every day when he got off work. When he didn’t appear, I searched for him. He was a no-show at Jablonski’s shop. His address turned out to be bogus. The landlady there stonewalled me, claimed she never heard of him. He’s gone. Gone.”
He leaned over the bar onto his elbows and swung his head my way. “I talked to your pal, Detective Waddell, over at headquarters, and picked up more information concerning the investigation. He told me several witnesses stated harsh words were exchanged between Shane and the victim. Then the cretin dragged the man out of his car and pummeled him in the middle of the street before running away. I learned this last bit after I posted the jerk’s bond.” Again, his face darkened in despair. “I know! I know! Don’t say it! Anyway, Waddell said he can’t find a motive for the murder.”
Then the cretin dragged the man out of his car and pummeled him in the middle of the street before running away.
There was something in my friend’s eyes which struck me as peculiar. “You know anything different?” He shot me a strange gaze before returning to his drink with a terse head shake. I let it drift. My interest was only a momentary one. Knowing a hoodlum’s motives wasn’t usually essential for me to track them.
Murray scanned the joint furtively and leaned in toward me. “Look, as I said, I don’t know much of his personal life, but I’ve learned something I hope may lead you to him.” Then he realized Harry was still hovering. “We need a bit of privacy, Gil. Mind if we grab a booth?” I agreed.
Once we were seated, the bondsman continued, “As I told you, it was only after I bailed him out I learned more about him.” Murray’s business must have been a tad sketchy at the time. Going forward on a bail bond without a thorough check of the client was not typical of Hertz. The man across the table from me went on, “I’ve been told he’s somehow involved with this outfit called the Friends of New Germany.”
* * *
I knew the association from articles in the local dailies, which I’d followed closely because of my concern about them. They’d reported the group came into being sometime in 1933, at the behest of Deputy Führer Rudolf Hess. Hess gave a German immigrant in the States named Heinz Spanknӧbel authority to form an American National Socialist organization. Spanknöbel happened to be a muckety-muck in the National Socialist German Workers Party, also known as the NSDAP. The result was the creation of the Friends of New Germany, which was openly pro-Hitler.
Later, according to reports, in an internal battle for control of the party, Heinz was soon ousted as leader. Two years ago this month, the authorities deported him because he had failed to register as a foreign agent. Meanwhile, Congressman Samuel Dickstein, Chairman of the Committee on Naturalization and Immigration, became aware of the large number of foreigners legally and illegally entering and living in the United States. At the same time, he learned of the growing anti-Semitism and vast amounts of anti-Semitic literature being distributed in the country. This led him to investigate the activities of National Socialism and other fascist groups. In turn, the Special Committee on Un-American Activities Authorized to Investigate National Socialist Propaganda and Certain Other Propaganda Activities was formed.
Last year the Committee conducted hearings, bringing before it most of the major figures in the American fascist movement. Dickstein’s investigation concluded the Friends represented a branch of German dictator Adolf Hitler’s NSDAP in this country.
While there remained stubborn pockets of the organization, its influence was now waning. Many speculated its activities might simply move underground. Still others figured the group would re-form itself to a society emphasizing its so-called patriotic American credentials. Yeah, I kept up with such news, because my gut told me it didn’t bode well for our country or the world. As the bard said, “a rose by any other name ….”
* * *
Murray retrieved a handbill from a coat pocket and slid it across the table to me. The flier advertised a Friends of New Germany rally scheduled for Saturday, the 19th, at a farm south of the city. It promised informative speakers on current events. “If he’s not there, maybe you can get a lead on his whereabouts. I probably don’t need to tell you, but it will help my conscience to say be careful. From what I’ve read, these roughnecks aren’t above cracking the skulls of those who don’t fall in line with their views of the world.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard,” I said. Particularly regarding their attitude toward folks of the Jewish persuasion, I thought, but didn’t feel the need to share my belief with Murray.
My bondsman friend added I should consider Shane armed and dangerous, though he hadn’t used a weapon in his crime. I passed on asking the man whether he was telling me how to do my job. Truth is, I approach every ne’er-do-well, including women, as if they’re armed and deadly. There are too many suckers pushing up daisies in the graveyard who didn’t and paid the price. Sure, I’ve been blindsided occasionally, but those situations were usually the result of an alluring, sultry female smile causing me to drop my guard. Other stories for other times.
When asked, Murray told me he didn’t have a photograph of the fugitive, but gave me a fairly detailed description of the palooka. His account of his client made him sound something like this kid Jay Berwanger, a hot item on the college football scene at the moment. That is, his account was close, at least from what I’d read and the snapshots the broadsheets had published about the halfback.
I might add Harry was pleased with the outcome of our encounter when he saw Murray give me a check. After we shook hands, a much-relieved Hertz and I parted company. It was too late in the day to make a stop at my bank with the draft. The next morning would be soon enough. Besides, I’d already decided to visit Detective Waddell before I did anything else. Maybe he could help with a photo of Shane. The years in my business have taught me physical descriptions can go awry for various reasons. Best to get a picture, if I could.
* * *
Waddell was out on a case when I went by police headquarters that afternoon. Unfortunately, Detective Gus Donovan was not. We bumped into each other at the sergeant’s desk in the lobby. “What’re you doing here, peeper?” He chuckled nastily, “Your boyfriend’s not around.”
Gus always started with a shot across my bow. We had a contentious history. I didn’t take the bait, but wouldn’t back off either. I squared up to him and sarcastically asked, “Did your parents have any kids who lived, Donovan?”
The desk sergeant, a copper named Harry Logan, tried in vain to suppress a snicker. It caught the rotund detective’s attention and pissed him off. Gus shifted his eyes from me to Harry and back again. He snarled, “Whattya mean by that, asshole?”
I smiled, turned, and started for the street. “Ask the sergeant, dummy!” I tossed over my shoulder. Glancing back just before pushing through the door, I saw the detective’s head snap toward the uniformed officer. Logan flushed beet red and swallowed hard while trying to lose himself in the paperwork on his desk.
From the station house’s stone steps, I watched Rob Waddell making his way along the sidewalk with his usual long strides. He saw me and called out a greeting. When my friend reached me, I told him I needed to chin with him for a few minutes, if he had the time. After he invited me in, we walked across the vestibule toward the hallway leading to the detective bureau. Detective Donovan was jammed up against Logan’s desk, talking in harsh, low tones. His florid, pockmarked face was redder than normal. He quickly glanced my way, only to be greeted with the best smirk I could muster. Frustrated further, he turned back to Logan.
In Waddell’s office, he took his chair and started jotting notes in a small notebook, presumably on his most recent inquiry. Hiking a hip onto the edge of his desk, I explained Hertz had hired me to find one of his murder suspects who’d skipped on Murray’s bail. The detective sergeant said he’d heard from the bondsman Nick Shane had gone on the lam. I dug a butt out my deck of Chesterfields and set fire to it. Rob lit a Camel and returned to his writing.
“Yeah, Hertz has employed me to locate the punk and bring him in.”
“Why not just leave it to the local police to snatch him up?”
Because I’d had the same question, I thought nothing of his asking. “No time. Hertz tells me the judge is pressuring him to get Nick back tout de suite. Says his honor’s being difficult for some reason.”
“Yeah. I’m trying to figure out what the judge’s problem is. First, he releases this goon on bail, a low bond on a solid murder case. Then, when Shane flits, he gives the bail bondsman a short time to find him and bring him into court.”
“So, the evidence is strong, then?”
The detective dropped his pencil, looked up at me, and sat back. “Sure! Five upstanding citizens heard tough words being tossed between the murderer and his victim. They said they couldn’t quite make out exactly what Shane was yelling because of his accent–it’s thick German–and the distance. But there was no doubt about his cold, sneering tone. The next thing they knew, this jerk trotted over to where the victim was sitting in his car, flung the door open, and dragged the poor man out. He beat and kicked him senseless in front of God and everybody. The man died a short time later.” Rob shot me a quizzical look. “Did you hear something different concerning the murder?”
“Just that Hertz talked to the court clerk, who said the judge gave your culprit a bond because of the flimsy evidence in the case.”
“Flimsy?” Waddell shouted, his nostrils flaring in anger.
I held up a restraining hand. “The judge’s word. Not mine.”
Suddenly, Donovan stuck his massive head in the door, aroused by his fellow detective’s raised voice. “You need help with this shamus, Rob? I’ll deal with him man to man, if you want.”
“No, Gus–”
I stood. “In that case, we’ll be one man short, Donovan.” At my words, the rest of Gus’s bulk came through the door.
“You two knock it off or I’ll have to thrash both of you! Get me?” the lanky Waddell bellowed. He never left his seat. He didn’t have to. His authority and determination were enough to deliver the message. To both of us. The portly flatfoot disappeared behind the closing door. I went back to my perch on the desk. Still shaking his head about the judge’s assessment of the facts, the detective returned to scrawling notes. Without looking up, he asked, “So, what brings you here, Gil?”
“I wonder whether I could get a slant at your jail photograph of Nick Shane.” Waddell nodded and left the room to locate the man’s book-in snapshot. Shortly, Rob came in and handed me an investigation file. Stapled inside the folder was a picture of my target. I studied it carefully. Murray’s description was close, but no cigar. He looked less like the University of Chicago football hero than I had understood him to be from the bondsman’s report. Shane reflected a hard, arrogant demeanor, even in his arrest picture. I thanked Waddell for his help and let him know I’d be in touch.
Shane reflected a hard, arrogant demeanor, even in his arrest picture.
* * *
Between Wednesday and Saturday, I made the rounds, making my usual inquiries when I’m looking for a bond fugitive. Nothing I learned gave me a clue to Nick Shane’s location.
* * *
Saturday, October 19th
The morning of the pro-Nazi gathering broke clear and mild. Figuring the day ahead was going to be a long one requiring nourishment, I ankled to the Wayside Café for a substantial breakfast. My arrival was before the usual rush of patrons. I wanted to get an early start searching the rally area in case my target showed his face. Oscar, the normally crusty fry cook-owner of the diner, was still in a cheerful mood. He’d recently collected his winnings from a bet on the Tigers to beat the Cubs in the World Series. After a generous portion of bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee, the LaSalle, top down, was cranked to life and pointed toward Broadwick Farm, site of the assembly that afternoon.
As I drew nearer the place, the road became crowded with heaps of various descriptions. Each appeared filled with folks in a festive mood. Several sported the Nazi swastika draped across windows.
Finally, I reached a sign announcing the “Broadwick Farm.” Men in tan shirts with black pants and ties blocked the dirt roadway, which turned off from the county highway and cut through the property. They also wore overseas caps such as the doughboys had worn. One of their number, apparently the man in charge of the entrance, stopped me as I pulled up to them. He was the beefy, stern-looking type. His cap, trimmed in golden-yellow threading, had what I later learned was an FDND insignia pinned to the right side. These guys were true believers. Leaning over my car door, he asked, “What’s your business here, mister?” The man’s manner was not exactly menacing, but a vague threat lay just below the surface. My guess was his attitude was a reaction to the scrutiny and negative publicity the organization had received recently. News ferrets weren’t welcome.
“I came to support the rally, of course,” I lied, trying to look mildly surprised at the question.
He studied me for a long minute, glancing over my LaSalle. “Okay,” he approved. “Drive down the road until you see cars parked to your right. Find a spot and park there. The parade will begin shortly.” His hand slapped the top of the door before I could pull away. “And stay out of the way of the procession.” He hadn’t needed to tell me. I’d read of the roughing up several meeting disrupters had received at the hands of members of the Friends.
I saw similarly dressed men milling around as I rolled along the dirt track. Most of them were in a field in a loose collection. Here and there were women wearing what seemed to be a uniform, consisting of white blouses and black skirts. They displayed the same armbands as their male counterparts.
Just past the second of two farmhouses, I saw a row of cars parked off the road. I pulled into the first available slot. As I slid out from behind the wheel, I looked back at the larger house, festooned with Nazi party banners. The farms owners were obviously in step with the pro-Hitler group.
A pack of people had gathered at the rear of their autos and across the way, waiting for the “festivities” to begin. Surveying the throng, I saw what appeared to be everyday folks. They were folks you might sit next to in church or a motion picture house or bump into coming out of the drugstore. Not to sound maudlin, but, in my heart, I hoped most were there owing to idle curiosity and not based on an enthusiastic belief in the hateful crap the Friends were spewing. Nick Shane was not in the multitude.
I fell in with the other gawkers to watch the goings-on. Back along the path I’d traveled, the assembly of the men in matching getups was making up some sort of grouping. I could hear random drum beats and bugle notes coming from the same direction as the participants warmed up. A speaker’s platform, the front of which was also adorned with National Socialist banners, had been set up farther down the course to my right. As I surveyed my surroundings, the hate-filled conversations I overheard were somewhat disturbing.
Suddenly, several bugles blared in a precision call to order. The drums joined in with a heavy, rhythmic beat. The formation moved from the field onto the road, trooping in our direction. A fella displaying a bunting on a pole followed the small drum and bugle corps. Then, a long column of the uniformed men marching abreast was preceded by a man carrying an American flag and a National Socialist flag. Men bearing the same standards were scattered throughout the parade. Frankly, it turned my stomach to see the two carried together. Another thing which made me want to retch was the number of folks who threw up a Nazi salute as the flags passed. But, again, Nick Shane was not among those marching.
Then, a long column of the uniformed men marching abreast was preceded by a man carrying an American flag and a National Socialist flag.
Upon reaching the stage, the column turned left and took up positions beside the road in front of the rostrum. The crowd had followed the group and now gathered before the platform. I decided to spend more time looking through the horde for my prey before taking my leave. Several uniformed men who hadn’t marched drifted among the spectators.
A man on the dais stepped to a microphone. He introduced himself as a regional party lug I’d never heard of. The audience responded politely. Then he introduced the “featured speaker.” This second joker was affiliated with the national leadership of the Friends, a henchman named Kappe. The gathering roared its approval and tossed Nazi salutes into the air.
Kappe strutted to the microphone in dramatic fashion, bringing Mussolini’s mannerisms I’d seen in the newsreels to mind. Initially, he spoke in low tones, comparing Nazi Germany to the United States in a positive light. Then he began berating our government for its attitude toward Hitler’s regime and for its coddling of Germany’s enemies. The speaker’s thin German-accented crescendo reached a climax as he rambled on, setting forth supposed advances the forward-thinking German authorities had made for a great society. Scattered applause greeted several of his comments. Roars of support met others. Nazi salutes accompanied these responses. All in all, it was disheartening to see American citizens cheering the National Socialist idea of a new world.
Then, the orator moved on to specific items he found contemptible, emphasizing the purported negative influence of Jews in our society. Kappe railed against what he called their efforts to destroy Germany after the last war. A war, he claimed, they were responsible for starting in the first place. Next, he referred to the president as “Frank D. Rosenfeld” and his “Jew Deal” policies.
I grimaced and shook my head in disgust. Suddenly becoming uncomfortable, I looked around furtively. The brawny gorilla I’d met at the farm’s entrance was glaring at me across the way. He nudged the hefty brown shirt beside him and cocked his chin toward me. The second lummox tried with not-so-subtle hand motions to catch the eye of someone beyond me on the other side of the onlookers. A sideways glance in that direction brought two more husky, uniformed men to my attention. They passed silent signals.
I seemed to be the subject of the quiet conversation. Then, the four started toward me, moving the audience members stiffly as they came closer. The throng was so closed in I had no place to run without causing a major disturbance. I waited, expecting the worst. As the small group drew nearer, the gatekeeper approached me from behind a serious-looking revolver he’d produced. Through the bodies, I could see he held the gat next to his abdomen for my benefit, but so as not to distract others.
“You have to come with us, mister,” the leader whispered, pressing the iron solidly against my ribs. “And do it quietly or you’ll be sorry.” Funny thing. I was already sorry. “We need to talk.” Two of the other hulks behind me grabbed me by my arms, just under the armpits. With seemingly little effort, they lifted me to where my feet were barely touching the ground. They turned me and made their way back through the gathering. A few people shot me looks of disapproval as we passed.
Beyond the throng, one man deftly checked me for weapons. Fortunately, I’d left my roscoe at my apartment. When he’d finished, the pair lowered me to complete contact with the ground while shifting my arms behind me and maintaining a firm hold. By this means, I was roughly frog-marched over the dirt road and into a small outbuilding.
Inside, the two shoved me hard across the little room. I stumbled to the floor against a coarse bag full of something unforgiving. Someone snapped on the lightbulb, swinging on a wire from the rafters. The hooligan in charge slammed the door behind him. The four men clustered around me. I braced myself.
“Hey, I know this mug!” one man exclaimed. I looked up into an unfamiliar face. “Yeah, this here jerk’s a gumshoe!”
“A copper?” Their leader was concerned.
“Nah, he’s a private dick. His name’s Tanner. I was on the force working a job he was involved with a few years ago. The Dandridge caper.” He shot me a hard look. “Remember me, bub?” I didn’t and shook my head in response. “Name’s O’Brien. Morris O’Brien. Ring any bells now, shamus?”
Oh, yeah. I recognized the name. Morris had been a bent copper they’d booted from the force. Part of his firing was based on the dope I’d discovered in the Dandridge case. Still, I didn’t place the face.
The leader stepped forward, his fists clenched menacingly. “Whaddya doin’ here, buster?”
I was behind the eight ball already. So telling these goons the truth wasn’t going to matter one way or the other. “I’m looking for a hooligan who supposedly runs with you gangsters. His handle is Shane. Nick Shane. Can you help me, Fritz?”
“My name ain’t Fritz, wiseass. And I never heard of any Shane.” The expression on his puss when I mentioned the name had told me something else. I caught the glances the other three had exchanged, too. He leaned over to me. The crumb, whose name wasn’t Fritz, lowered his voice as he talked. “I saw the face you made when Herr Kappe spoke the truth out there about the Jewish vermin. You ain’t here to support the Friends like you said. Yeah, I spotted you for trouble the minute I laid eyes on you. You are a blister on the heel of progress, Tanner. You’re leaving, arschloch, but not without a special send-off.” He straightened and looked askew at his pals. “Stand ‘em up, boys.”
O’Brien hesitated as the other two men reached to get me off the rough floor. The former cop grabbed the leader’s arm and offered, “Let me, Leo. I owe this bastard.” The other pair grabbed my arms in vise-like grips.
Leo smiled and moved back half a step, holding a mitt out in invitation. “Be my guest, Morris. Give him the works.”
O’Brien squared up to me and shot a wicked grin my way. I chuckled, “Morris, huh? Do they ever call you Moe? It’s a fairly common name at the synagogue. Maybe you–”
A solid wallop to my jaw interrupted my thought. It was a rock-hard punch. Grogginess overwhelmed me. A series of heavy blows to my puss and midsection followed the whack. The air left my lungs. I may have blacked out for a second. Suddenly, the world was an ugly blur. Morris pounded a further number of sharp jabs to my kisser and torso. It felt like the meanest kind of anger propelled every belt. I vaguely heard Leo advise Morris not to kill me.
Then he asked me whether I’d gotten their message. I managed a grunt, hoping it came across as a “yes.” He then told me, if he ever saw me anywhere near a Friends rally again, he’d cut off my “Jew-loving balls” and feed them to me. The pair holding me let me drop to the floor. As I lay there, someone landed a tremendous kick to my stomach, accompanied by the words, “Verpiss dich!” The thump caused me to puke. So much for a good breakfast.
Through a bleary haze, the sounds of mutterings, chuckles, and shuffling boots came to me. The door slammed. I determined I was alone. Although I was eager to haul my ass out of there, my body was in no mood to move. Everything I had ached–even a few body parts I hadn’t been aware of. I stayed there for a time and tried to recoup my senses. Herr Kappe’s despicable message continued to blare through the loudspeaker system. Eventually, his vile words spurred me to get up. I lurched to the door. When I opened it, the bright sunlight offended my eyes. A minute or so of rest was in order just then. My ribs were killing me. It hurt to breathe. A few people milling around nearby shot me odd looks as I staggered out of the doorway.
Climbing the slight incline to the road felt like scaling Mount Everest. Behind the wheel of my crate, I supposed I might actually survive my encounter with the jackbooted thugs. The LaSalle’s motor coughed, then purred smoothly. Slowly, I made my way off the farm and back to the city.
My first stop was at the office of a physician pal of mine. Dr. Clarence Lusk lived an apartment above his struggling medical practice. That is to say, his “public” professional work was suffering because he had recently been pulled in by the law for “privately” treating gunshot wounds without reporting them to the police. This latter aspect of his livelihood still kept him somewhat busy, but he was extremely cautious nowadays.
Through it, Clarence had somehow maintained his license to practice. He had to be acquainted with you to give you special treatment. Then he’d ask no questions. Fortunately, the doc knew me. Anyway, I could get looked after, though it was Saturday afternoon. The good doctor cleaned my cuts, applied this stuff, which burned like hell, and bandaged me. He wrapped my rib cage and told me to rest easy for a while. Lusk finished by giving me tablets for the pain. But he warned me to wait until I got home to take any.
Back in my apartment, my head was roaring. I downed a pill with a generous portion of Jack Daniels. Despite the achiness, I soon surrendered to sleep’s undertow.
* * *
I spent the following day lazing around my flat, reading and listening to the radio, which included a pretty funny Jack Benny program that evening. Early on, I gave up on the medicine the doc had given me. They killed the agony, okay, but my brain was too fuzzy to think straight. I tucked them away for likely future use. The soreness was brutal, but at least I was clear-headed. It offered me a chance to consider the events of the day before. These pro-Hitler types were definitely on my shit list.
* * *
Monday, October 21st
Before the sun had climbed above my apartment windowsills, I was awakened from a fitful sleep and summoned to the hall telephone for an “emergency” call. Leaning heavily, achingly against the wall there, I barked a not so pleasant greeting to the caller. On the other end of the line, an anxious Murray Hertz spoke in hurried terms. He said he needed to see me as soon as possible. We planned to meet later at Harry’s Paradise Tavern. As an afterthought, he asked how I made out at the Friends rally. I groggily told him he could determine for himself when he saw me.
As I shaved, I studied my pan in the mirror. My left cheek was scraped and swollen to the point I could see the whiskers growing there. A shiner had formed around the eye. I wasn’t happy with the face. At least the cut over the eyebrow had stopped bleeding, to the point where it no longer required a bandage.
* * *
Midmorning, I hobbled my way into Harry’s. My pal got worked up over my appearance, asking me a half-dozen questions. Not in the mood for gab or to relive the incident, I said pleasantly, “I had a rough date last night with a new bim. And, no, I don’t want to talk about it.” He gave me a smirk and a slight shrug before walking to the far end of the bar.
My pal got worked up over my appearance, asking me a half-dozen questions.
I was on my second medicinal bracer when Hertz hustled in and settled on the stool next to me, ordering a drink as he sat. When he saw my face, he winced faintly and blinked several times.
“I was going to call you, Murray, after I had breakfast,” I said, raising my glass. “I hit a little opposition to my inquiry with the local contingent of the Friends of New Germany. It was a dead end.”
“Yeah, I see. I see.” The man threw back his liquor and signaled Harry for another round for us. He swung his seat to face me. Hertz reached inside his suit coat, retrieved an envelope, and smiled weakly. “Over the weekend, I came on a lead on Nick Shane’s correct location here in the city. I couldn’t reach you, so I drove to the apartment building this morning. When I explained who I was and my interest in finding her tenant, the landlady tried to sandbag me. Finally, when I waved a fistful of cabbage under her nose, she came around.
According to her, Shane cleaned out his bedsit in the middle of the night and left owing two months’ rent. The woman told me she didn’t know much about him. Quiet. Kept to himself. Of course, she claimed she had no forwarding information. Eventually, I got this after pressing her,” he stated, shaking the envelope. “She said it arrived in the mail the day after he disappeared.” The bail bondsman let loose a heavy sigh. “The yenta made me pay her his back rent for the damned thing! She might as well have been wearing a mask and carrying a gun!” he finished, handing the document to me.
The correspondence, which had been ripped open, was addressed to “Nick Shane.” My companion read my thoughts. “Yeah, I opened it. I hoped it could give me a lead to his whereabouts. The letter itself didn’t help, but the return address might be a clue,” he explained. My crony frowned with patient annoyance when I perused the thing, anyway. “It’s just a schmuck telling Shane of his progress settling in a new city or such. I don’t get the gist of it.”
The message was as Murray had related. The sender, a person named Hans, seemed to solicit Shane’s appearance at his location. I noted the salutation, such as it was, used no name. That was sort of interesting to me because it would have been hidden inside the envelope. The thing was cryptic. I glanced at the sender’s address. The city was a two days’ drive from where we sat. I reinserted the document into its wrapper and let it fall onto the bar. My pal’s face continued to reveal worry, though he tried to sip his drink casually.
The thing was cryptic.
The bondsman went silent for a minute, then he spoke animatedly, tapping the envelope lying on the countertop. “That place has to be your first step to finding Shane, Gil. It’s a good starting point.”
“I’ve already taken my first step, Murray. Remember? I hate to admit it, but I stepped and fell. Landed hard.” I returned to my drink. It still hurt to talk and breathe.
He asked, after a brief pause, “Are you gonna stay on the job or not?” Not waiting for my answer, he continued. “Look, I’ll pay your regular fee, plus expenses, including the train ticket there and back and,” here he paused before finishing, “your doctor bill. A bonus if you return him before the judge’s deadline. As I said, this is personal.” There it was again. A comment that just didn’t figure.
“You’re familiar enough with me by now, Murray, to understand I’m kinda stubborn when it comes to certain things. When people try too hard to convince me to drop a case, I tend to dig my heels in. I’m not in the business of quitting.” Shaking my noggin, I countered his question, “Yeah, I’ll continue on the job, but, uh-uh, I won’t be taking the train.”
I nodded toward the envelope. “As I told you, finding and returning him in six or seven days will be pushing it as it is, even if he has gone to see Hans. The city’s a two-day drive away. It’ll shorten the time I will have there to locate him, but driving my heap will make getting around there easier. Plus, if I find this jerk, I might have to hog-tie him to drag him here. That’ll be less noticeable in my LaSalle. You can pay for the gasoline.” He waggled his head in silent assent. “When can you get me the paperwork on his fugitive status so I can show the local law and keep them off my back?”
My pal smiled and produced the papers, establishing Shane as a bail jumper, sufficient to satisfy the authorities there. He also handed me a check for my second week’s fee, less expenses. We shared a grin. He’d been sure I would stay on the investigation. I told my client I’d leave after I packed and took care of a couple of things here. He grinned, ordered us another round, and slapped a fin on the bar.
* * *
After a quick visit to my bank, I stopped by headquarters to see Detective Waddell. He greeted me with a shocked look. “What the hell happened to you?”
Speaking low, I said simply, “Saturday, at their rally, I ran into a few of Hitler’s goose-stepping minions who didn’t appreciate my attitude toward their beliefs.” His face reflected mild surprise. We started for Rob’s office, and I elaborated as we walked the hall, finishing with, “I was looking for Nick Shane. Seems he’s a believer. It’s nothing,” I added, touching my black eye. “I’ll live. I need some dope from you, if you have a minute.”
“Sure, Gil. Sure.”
When I was sitting across his desk from my friend, I explained, “Murray now thinks he has got a pretty good idea where Nick Shane may be holed up. At least what city he’s in.”
He was writing something in a file as I talked. He grinned knowingly and said, “And you want to find out whether I have someone on the police force in this other burg for a point of contact.” We’d done this before. “What city?”
When I mentioned the name, Rob tossed me a quick up-from-under slant. Concern played at the edge of his eyes. I waited. He tossed the pencil he’d been writing with onto the desk and leaned back in his chair. Steepling his fingers over his abdomen, he appeared pensive. I waited a while longer. Finally, he said, “I assume, being the ‘by-the-book’ guy you are, you’ll stop at their police headquarters to tell someone you’re in town and why.” I smiled at his artfully loose definition of the kind of mug I was and acknowledged it noncommittally. “Mind a suggestion?”
I nodded again. Unlike taking advice from a bail bondsman, I’d listen to a professional such as Waddell, who I respected for his work in my line. “When you go by their department, stay clear of a particular lummox on the force.” He rubbed a thumb on the dark stubble of his chin. I recognized it as his way of pausing to think through what he wanted to tell me. “I dunno. Maybe there’s more than one, but one I know of for sure. His name’s Frank Hardin. Detective Frank Hardin. He’s a hard case who plays rough. From what I hear and understand, he’s not averse to playing both sides of the law when it suits him.”
I started to crack wise, but my friend’s tone told me he was on what he considered a serious subject. I sat forward in my chair and listened. He leaned over his desk. “Met him once when we each had a murder committed by the same perpetrator. Of it being the same thug, there was no doubt. The question was who was the killer. At one point, Frank notified me he had a suspect, so I met with him there.
When we finally found the fella, he ran. My fellow detective chased him up an alley while I went around in a different direction to head him off. Just before I got to where the pair was located, I heard two shots. Then, after a pause, another. As I rounded a corner, I saw Hardin planting a gun in the man’s hand.” Following a brief interval, Rob continued, “He swore the fleeing man had turned and fired at him. He said he killed him in self-defense.” My pal made an unhappy gesture. “What could I do? We were on his turf. It was my word against his.
“Later, I learned the dead guy had an airtight alibi for the times of both murders. He supposedly ran because of the detective’s vicious reputation.” Rob heaved an audible sigh. “Know what Frank said when I told him the poor slob had a firm defense? The bum nonchalantly mumbled, ‘Well, if he didn’t do these, he was guilty of something else.’” After a deep breath, he continued, “Not doing anything to correct the circumstances is the biggest regret of my law-enforcement career.” He shook the remorse off and added, “Anyway, since then, I’ve heard plenty of other crap concerning him, too. None of it is good. Bottom line is to stay the hell away from him, Gil. He can’t or won’t help you. And he will hurt you if he decides to. He’s a sadistic bastard.”
After a deep breath, he continued, “Not doing anything to correct the circumstances is the biggest regret of my law-enforcement career.”
I thanked my friend for the warning. On the drive back to my apartment, I mulled over what Waddell had told me. I still felt the need to report my presence to the coppers there, if for no other reason than simply to cover my ass if anything broke wrong. Keeping my distance from Hardin would be my top priority. To get one more night’s healing and, hopefully, some sound sleep, I decided to start the next morning.
* * *
Tuesday, October 22nd
At an early hour, I threw a few clothes into a travel bag. I included extra clips for my .45 and a blackjack I called my ‘persuader’. Included in my gear was a small container of theatrical makeup. It always brought back memories of its beginning.
* * *
Several years earlier, I’d met an older fellow named Ramsey over drinks at the Paradise Tavern. When Harry told him what racket I was in, the stranger had inquired whether I ever went in for disguises. At the time, I had only been a private investigator for a short while and didn’t see the need for such trappings. But, by that point in our conversation, I’d learned the old timer had lost his wife to consumption and subsequently his two kids to the Spanish flu epidemic back in ’18. When, in his depression, he had taken to drink, he’d lost his job.
Harry explained the guy was now living hand to mouth. Despite everything, he was an agreeable geezer. Lon–a Hollywood-inspired nickname I later gave him for obvious reasons–had finally found work as a stagehand in our local theater district. He told me he had access to theatrical makeup, if I needed any. I felt sorry for Lon–not an emotion I’m afflicted with much–and informed him I’d be glad to get my mitts on some disguise material, if it wasn’t too costly. It wasn’t. I never knew or asked how he came by the stuff. That was between Ramsey and his Maker. But it was handy to have more often than I might have expected.
* * *
Following a hasty stop by my bank, I had coffee and a quick breakfast at the Wayside Café. Then, I gassed up the LaSalle and hit the road. Except for a few severe downpours, which forced me to put the top up on my heap, the trip was uneventful. Long and humdrum.
* * *
Thursday, October 24th
Late the second day after leaving home, I pulled into the city limits of my destination. Being still sore as hell and bone tired from the drive, I considered checking in to a hotel before dropping in on the law. But something gnawing at my gut told me to touch base with the coppers first. I always go with my gut.
In the event I might need to make a quick getaway, I topped off my crate’s fuel tank before going farther into downtown. While a kid was pumping gas, I asked him where to find police headquarters. He gave me a baleful glare and turned his face away from me. Although angered by his attitude, I held fast. The storm passed. I didn’t push the issue.
Later, I pulled up to and parked behind a couple of cabs sitting at a taxi stand. A pair of drivers were leaning against their hacks, smoking, waiting for fares. When I asked them how to get to police headquarters, they only glanced at one another and smiled. I flashed a fin. A tough-looking mug with a twenty-four-hour shadow spread across his kisser, quickly tossed his gasper, snatched the bill from my hand, and gave me what I wanted. Then I sought directions to Hans’s residence.
The hack driver hesitated and questioned whether I was offering any more “dough re mi” for the information. I threw the lug a stare that told him a fiver was plenty. He grinned irritably and told me how to find Hans’ place. I thanked him and departed. Both men regarded me with frank suspicion as I drove away. In my experience, most cities are welcoming and hospitable to strangers–the citizens make you want to settle down there. In some burgs, it’s a drudgery just to walk the sidewalks among its occupants. Though I’d only recently arrived, this municipality appeared to lean toward the latter.
A little less than a half hour later, I tucked the LaSalle against the curb outside police headquarters. The sidewalk was crawling with uniforms. Trotting up the front steps, I entered a large atrium with marble walls and floor. Behind a massive counter running in either direction from a raised oak desk sat what I assumed to be the duty sergeant. The youngish officer looked haggard and without hope as he listened patiently to an older, frumpy woman who stood before the harnessed bull, finishing her complaint.
“Yeah, yeah, Mrs. Kravitz, I understand,” the copper responded wearily, yet soothingly. “I’ll send somebody ‘round again to speak with Mrs. Bavier about her cat screeching in the alley every night and keeping you awake. Thank you for coming in again, ma’am. Have a nice day, Mrs. Kravitz.”
The old lady paused in place, then reluctantly moved away from the desk, looking back longingly as she shuffled to the door. I stepped to the counter as the sergeant mumbled, “I’ll come ‘round myself and shoot the damned cat, if it keeps you outta my station house.” The words fought their way out between gritted teeth, mostly hidden by a contrived smile aimed at the old woman. The nameplate on the desktop read “Sgt. Huckabee.” Then, the Mr. Hyde version of the uniformed officer transformed into a Dr. Jekyll rendition as he shifted his focus to me. On closer examination, I realized he was older than I’d first thought. The man simply possessed a choirboy face. He eyed my injured puss. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
This chapter of my trip, I’d decided, would be approached with caution. “I’m a private detective from out-of-town. I will be searching for a guy who skipped out on his bail and came here to your city. At least, we think he’s here. All I have is an address for a Hans, who’s apparently a friend of this fugitive, as a starting point. I don’t have a last name for Hans. Anyway, I wanted to make a courtesy call on the police department to let you know I’m here and why.”
The copper went slightly ashen. Seemingly, this was a matter he’d never encountered. “I see,” he offered unconvincingly. “Well, I believe this is something normally handled by the detective division. You know, to get the information about your business here in town, where you’re staying, and so forth. Let me think ….” At that instant, he glimpsed beyond me. I could tell by his expression he saw what he thought to be the answer to a silent prayer. “Detective!” he yelled to someone behind me. I turned in time to see a beefy plug-ugly in an ill-fitting suit veer in our direction. “Detective, this fella needs to talk with you,” Huckabee said over my shoulder.
The fellow he’d summoned stopped and squared up to me. The plainclothes copper was around my height but more muscular in build. Perhaps a year or two older. He had dark hair and a face like a melted badge. My guess was the chewing gum in his mouth was going to heaven, because he was giving it hell at that point. I extended my hand in greeting and got a menacing glower in return. But no handshake. “I’m Detective Hardin. Whaddya want, bub?”
The world suddenly seemed closed in. Of all the damned luck! The look in his eyes was the same I’d seen in the kid at the gas station. I wondered what type of folks ran the Travelers Aid Society here. Cautious, but undaunted, I explained, “I’m a private investigator here in town searching for a bond fugitive from our city. He–”
“Private gumshoe, huh?” He pushed his snap-brim hat back on his enormous head. His hostile eyes quickly gave me the once-over while he put a match to a fag. “We ain’t got much use for your kind hereabouts, buster,” he growled around the gum and the cigarette. He paused in thought for a second. I didn’t think this knuckle dragger could last any longer in the effort. He eyed my shiner and chuckled, “Looks like somebody else don’t care for you either. Maybe ya just need to saddle up,” he drawled, “and skedaddle off to where ya came from, mister …. What d’ya say your name was?”
“I didn’t say. But, since you ask, it’s … Cooper. Hal Cooper. I’m–”
“Got any identification?”
I fished around in my pockets and produced nothing. Smiling as sheepishly as I could manage, I told the detective I’d left my billfold in my jalopy.
He snorted with contempt, “You’re really on the ball, hey, Cooper? Well, let me see the paperwork on this punk.”
Without repeating the sham of pretending to search on my person for the papers, I did my best to appear stricken, “I guess I left it in my flivver, too.” I knew the derisive response this could bring, but I was willing to look foolish short term to win long term.
The big man leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “I’d say ya got this detectin’ thing down pretty good, ace.” The conglomerated reek of cheap aftershave, sweat, tobacco, and Juicy Fruit chewing gum battered me. A miasma of stale rye hung around him like marsh gas. I somehow withstood the assault. He straightened. “What makes ya think he’s here?”
“He says he’s looking for a fella named Hans, detective.” It was the Huckabee chiming in. “I’m pretty sure–”
“Never heard of ‘em,” Hardin responded, glancing behind me, his eyes shooting knives at the uniformed officer. He moved the conversation on. “Where ya stayin’? Ya know what a hotel is, don’t ya?”
I chuckled as self-consciously as my limited acting skills allowed. “I haven’t registered at any place yet. You have any recommendations, detective?” I wanted this jerk to feel as much in control as he sensed he should be. “I’d really appreciate a suggestion.”
“The Bradford Hotel ain’t bad,” the big bull offered, trying to take on a friendlier air. But he’d already set the mood. “Why don’t ya go check in there. Then, ya return here toot de sweet with your papers,” he added, in a voice a teacher might use to a slow-thinking child. “And ya can explain to me all about your case and what ya have at this point. We’ll talk then, Super Cooper.” I suddenly missed Det. Gus Donovan from my hometown. Never thought I say that,
I nodded, feigning gratitude. Now, I’m the religious sort, but somewhere in my mind was a Bible story my mom used to tell us. In the tale, a king in old Jerusalem told three wise men to come back and report to him what they knew of a certain situation. The tale didn’t end well for a number of innocent folks. I wasn’t going to get caught up in a similar gambit. “The Bradford,” I repeated. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll see you soon.”
I nodded, feigning gratitude.
The detective tossed me a mocking grin, turned on his heels, and moved away. He carried himself with a self-assured authority, with which he seemed certain no one would argue, none might dare question.
Turning to Huckabee, I asked for directions to the Bradford. His instructions were westward of what I surmised to be the city center. My lodgings, then, had to be on the east side. It’d work perfectly for me because I’d come in from that direction and might need a hasty exit on that same route.
As I turned toward the door, the sergeant stopped me. He leaned over his desk toward me, glanced around furtively, and spoke in hushed tones. “This Hans hoodlum you’re looking for … the whole department knows him. Hans Braun’s the name. At least, that’s what he gave us. I’m not sure why the detective told you otherwise, but we know him. He’s a bad apple and runs with a couple of bullies cut from the same cloth.”
“You’re certain it’s the same guy?”
“How many goons named Hans do you think we got in this town, mister? Especially one who might come to the attention of the cops or a private investigator. It’s him all right.”
I bobbed my understanding. “What’s he been up to, sergeant?”
“Well, nothing really serious. Just been picked up a few times in the middle of the night in places he shouldn’t have been. We figured he was gonna burglarize a few joints, but never could prove anything. Sneaky little bastard. Him and his two running mates. Yeah, we’ve got him in our sights. I’ve had more than one run-in with him myself.”
He shook his head. “I realize the detective hates private dicks but don’t understand why he said he’d never heard of Hans.” In answer to my request, he gave me a brief description of the man. Huckabee also wrote out the location of the last place he knew Hans had lived. It matched the return address on the communication sent to Nick Shane. After a second’s pause, he finished, “Just so’s you know, Cooper, we reckon Braun goes around carrying a gat most of the time. Probably his friends, too. So watch yourself.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
He essayed the lobby, then looked at me hard. “No, you don’t, ‘cause this conversation never happened.”
Out on the sidewalk, I glimpsed a drugstore along the block. I ambled there and climbed onto a stool at the soda fountain, where a cute, youngish redhead was serving the sparse crowd. She reminded me of someone I’d known a while back. I ordered a cup of java.
When she brought my coffee, I asked whether she knew any decent hotels on the east end of town. She blushed. I caught a hint of uneasiness in her eyes. Quickly explaining I’d just driven into town and had to find a place to stay, I assured her I meant nothing by the question. The last thing I needed was to get picked up on a vice rap because of a misunderstanding. She recovered, smiled, and offered to ask her manager.
As I watched her glide to an older man in a white tunic at the drug counter in the back of the joint, I recollected a similar sashay in another redhead once upon a time. My stomach turned over. I shook it off. No sense in getting mired in old heartaches. When she returned, she said her boss recommended the Union Inn. It was on this street ten blocks east of the drugstore. I thanked her, finished my cup of joe, and dropped her a nice tip. Turning on the stool to leave, I saw the druggist eyeballing me warily. I tossed him a grateful, reassuring hand gesture from the brim of my fedora. He grinned and waved.
The sun was setting when I left the store. Between the lateness of the day and my soreness and weariness from the long drive, I decided to start my search for Hans the next morning. On my way to the hotel, I picked up a bottle of hooch for supper.
* * *
Under the name Joe Daly from Kings Point, New York, I checked in to the Union Inn, paying for two days in advance. I’d pay for a longer stay later if need be. But if it took more than that to locate and gather my target, Murray’s bond would be forfeited. I got a room with a bath. It was more expensive, but what the hell. I was on the bail bondsman’s expense account.
The name switch was to keep Det. Hardin off my tail as long as possible. My thought was, when he started looking for me, he would begin with the Bradford Hotel, supposing I went there, as he’d recommended, like a “good little boy.” When he didn’t find Hal Cooper there, he’d start expanding his search in that part of town. Likely, he’d then move east, still searching the same name. By the time he figured my play, I’d be long gone, if my luck held. Hoping for a quick getaway, I didn’t unpack my bag. ©
