Friday, October 25th
I stopped by the front desk on my way out of the hotel the next morning. The clerk gave me directions to Hans’s building. His instructions meshed with those given to me earlier by the cabbie. I didn’t mention Braun’s name during the exchange. At an eatery a couple of doors farther along the block, I grabbed a quick breakfast and a newspaper.
With bacon, eggs, and toast floating contentedly in nearly a quart of coffee, I headed for my LaSalle. On the drive, it occurred to me this Braun character may have registered or signed a lease under another name. That could put the kibosh on my finding him easily. I’d deal with it if it became a fact. The other thing rattling around in my brain was how long it might be before Hardin missed seeing my puss and started a search for me.
* * *
In due course, I drove slowly past the place Hans called home and took the time to size up the joint. The place was a large three-story brick apartment building, turreted at the corners. It appeared to predate Edison’s electric lamp. The turrets looked to form bay windows for the corner units. Located on a relatively quiet intersection, it faced a low-traffic, tree-lined avenue. The road was a business district with a few mom-and-pop joints and other apartment houses scattered along the roadway. The side street evolved into a modest residential neighborhood. “Lafayette Towers” had been carved in a granite escutcheon above the front entrance. The structure had no exterior fire escapes, one of my favorite means of getting into places when folks felt the need to lock their doors.
Parking on the narrow side street, I pulled on a pair of plain-glass, thick-rimmed cheaters. Carefully parting my hair in the middle, I finished the effect by pressing a theatrical mustache on my upper lip. In the wing mirror’s reflection, I decided, while perhaps not Sherlock Holmes-worthy, the getup was passable for the job at hand. I’ve always found it interesting how such a simple disguise can throw off the later recognition of a person by the casual observer. The swollen cheek and black eye probably hindered the look. My hat stayed on the seat to complete my milquetoast appearance.
With a small satchel I kept for such occasions, I climbed out of my heap and walked around the corner to the building’s front entrance. A wall just inside the door displayed a list of the occupants with their flat numbers. Luck remained with me. Someone had carefully scrawled the name Hans Braun on the piece of paper assigned to bedsit three-one-two. Inside, the main hallway ran straight through the joint, before turning to the left at the rear. For future reference, I followed the corridor and discovered it ended at an exit, which emptied onto the sidewalk running along the side street.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor and paused to get my bearings. Then, I prowled the dimly lighted passageway, following the descending numbers above the door frames, back toward the front of the place. Apartment three-twelve was on one of the building’s corners. I stopped short and listened to Benny Goodman’s rendition of King Porter Stomp coming from the flat loud and clear. I could make out at least two men’s voices inside, trying to talk over the blare. Moving closer, I saw Braun’s handwritten name on the nameplate. Suddenly, heavy footfalls mounting the stairs came to me. I turned in time to see a husky young guy moving my way. He wore grease-stained coveralls under a rough work jacket and carried a lunch pail. The music died away.
“You need something, pops?” The man didn’t fit the description of the crumb I was hunting for. As everyone else had done, he gave my beaten face the once-over.
Patting my satchel, I chuckled meekly, “No, sir. I’m Joe Daly from New York Indemnity Life Insurance. And I’m looking for a Mr. Durrance. Mr. Charles Durrance. He’s supposed to reside in unit three-twelve in this building,” I offered, nodding to the door.
“Sorry, mac. I live here with two pals. None of us named Durrance.” A lump in the right pocket of his jacket sagged heavily. It provided me a pretty good idea he was strapped.
As the eyeglasses slide down my nose, I looked over them, giving the palooka a helpless gaze. “Are you sure?”
He gave me a funny look. “How the hell could I not be sure, mister? We been here together almost a year. It’s just me and Butch and–”
The apartment’s door opened suddenly. A young man fitting Huckabee’s description of Braun nearly jumped into the hall. A third fellow stood in the room behind him. The three were burly types and sported sandy-colored hair. As expected, I saw the place had a bay window in the front corner overlooking the intersecting streets. “Whaddya think you’re doin’, David?” He eyed me suspiciously. “Who are you?”
The three were burly types and sported sandy-colored hair.
Before I could speak, the newcomer interjected, “He’s an insurance guy. Got the wrong apartment. That’s all.”
“Get inside!” As David walked past him compliantly, the thug snarled at me, “You heard the man, mister. You got the wrong address. Now beat it!” When he stepped back into the apartment and closed the door, the lug I took to be Hans started yelling at his roommate. Again, it was loud enough to come to me through the wall. “What the hell are you doing giving out names to a stranger? You know better than that!” I chuckled at what had happened. Hans shouted at his pal for using their names with me, while carelessly telling me David’s moniker. But now I knew the identities of the three men in the “gang.”
David hadn’t mentioned Nick or a fourth co-tenant. So, I assumed my pigeon was nesting elsewhere, if he were in this city. Now it was a matter of sitting and waiting for one of these goons to contact their buddy, or vice versa. Meanwhile, Hans’ paranoia over privacy had aroused my curiosity. What were these jerks up to? Were they on the lam from the law? Were they planning a big heist, which one could loosely interpret from Braun’s letter to Shane? My interest was fast becoming an itch. At some point I was going to scratch it.
This was a sizeable city. I could spend weeks looking for Nick without luck. Instead, I decided to stake out the Lafayette Towers boys in the hope they’d lead me to him or he might show up there. So, I eased my car up to a parking space at the corner of their intersection, which gave me an unobstructed view of the building’s front and the side entrance. I combed my hair back into place and stashed the eyeglasses and mustache. Then I slid over to the passenger’s seat. Sitting there during a stakeout gives anyone noticing the impression I’m waiting for the driver to return. It’s less suspicious to the casual onlooker. I spent the rest of the day in my heap, watching, smoking, and scanning the local daily.
A front-page story of the newspaper covered the recent Italian invasion of Abyssinia, which, according to the paper, had started the Second Italo-Ethiopian War. More alarmingly, the article said the Italians were receiving materiel support from Hitler. It seemed Italy and Germany were determined to drag the world into another conflict. Of course, it also proclaimed the League of Nations had denounced Mussolini’s incursion. The League of Nations. Now there was a toothless tiger. I shook my head at the thought of how little people had learned from the Great War. Just this past summer, Britain had agreed to a German naval buildup. I reckoned the limeys were going to get something they hadn’t bargained for.
Elsewhere, authorities had reduced the number of deaths from a hurricane, which had struck Florida the month before, from the original seven hundred dead reported to less than five hundred. At least it was a far smaller death toll than the storm which had hit the state back in September ’28. I guess you had to take your good news where you could find it. Meanwhile, many confused people were still trying to figure how this Social Security Act FDR had signed into law two months earlier might affect them. Confusion and chaos were everywhere. No wonder I usually turned straight to the sports section. Then to the funny pages.
On the sports page, I read a follow-up article about James Braddock, the boxer Damon Runyon had dubbed the “Cinderella Man.” My mind drifted back to an Irishman I’d once assured that Braddock was washed up as a prizefighter because of an injured hand. He’d only laughed and challenged me to keep an eye on his fellow Irishman. My friend had died a short while later. In June, the Bulldog of Bergen had beaten Max Baer for the heavyweight boxing title. I figured my spindly Mick friend had been looking down on me, smiling that big toothy grin of his, and saying, “I told you so, my son.”
There was also a human-interest piece on Detroit’s Hank Greenberg, who’d been voted the American League’s MVP. A pretty nasty guy with a bat, a broken wrist after a collision with the Cubs catcher had sidelined Greenberg for most of the recent World Series. The Tigers had finally won their first title on their fifth try. Meanwhile, my Cincinnati Redlegs had finished the season under .500, despite showing promise early on.
In May, Ernie Lombardi had doubled in the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth innings in a 15-4 win against the Philadelphia. Anyone who knew how slow-footed the big catcher was realized what a feat, pun intended, it was for him. Later in the month, the Reds beat the Phillies in the major league’s first night game. The season went downhill from there. The Phillies returned the favor of the earlier thrashing by scoring eleven runs in one inning on the way to an 18–0 victory against my Reds in July. Maybe next year. I was getting tired of saying that.
The pile of cigarette butts in the gutter below my passenger’s window continued to grow during the afternoon. When night enveloped me, I stopped lighting up fags. They give away the fact someone is sitting in a crate in the dark. I never seek unwanted attention. Soon, radios bleated discordantly on various programs from the open windows of surrounding residences. The Amos ‘n’ Andy program was the only one among them I could identify. I concluded this stakeout approach could take forever.
Abruptly, from the corner of my eye, I caught a movement at the Lafayette’s front door. The three men had appeared too rapidly for me to get a decent squint in the glare of the building’s entry lights. But as they made their way along the sidewalk and paused under a streetlamp to light gaspers, I had a good look at the trio of hooligans from the apartment. I waited. Their voices carried in the still, crisp air. They stood for a couple of minutes, animatedly debating where to have dinner. Finally, Hans took charge and mumbled to the others. I couldn’t make out his words. Then, the noisy little group crossed the street, traipsed along the pavement and into an eatery.
Feeling the weight of time pressing on me, I decided this was the moment to do something. I grabbed my flash and sap, loped to the secondary entrance of the apartment house, and hustled inside. On the third floor, I left the stairs and walked the corridor to three twelve. There were no signs of life as I moved, only long-haired music coming from another residence somewhere on the hall. As expected, everything was quiet on the other side of Hans’s door.
Although no light showed under the door’s sill, I still knocked. When no one answered, I glanced at the lock and smiled. A kid could pick the thing with a lollipop stick. Between the jamb and the door, I employed a piece of hard celluloid I always carried in my billfold and applied pressure. It gave way. Despite the evidence indicating the apartment should be empty, I used caution. Still standing to the side, I pushed it open slowly.
Only dead, musty-smelling air greeted me. I stepped inside quickly, flattened against the wall, and closed the door. A lamp on a small table in the bay window was lit. The room contained the usual furniture. A pillow and folded blanket sat beside a hot plate on a sideboard. Three doors led from the sitting area. I had to admit the place was neater than I might have expected for three young men living together. Making my way to the turret, I saw it allowed an unrestricted view to the greasy spoon where the trio was eating. I raised the shade and opened the window halfway, hoping to hear the group when they left the restaurant. Cool night air rushed past me through the opening.
I tried the first door going off from the main area. It led to a modest bedroom at the front of the building. I snapped on my flash, and its yellow cone of light stabbed the darkness around the space. In the beam, I saw an unmade bed and a nightstand with a lamp sitting between two windows on the wall to my left. To my right sat a dresser with a mirror. A table-model radio, a bottle of schnapps and a glass rested on top of it. A straight-backed chair completed the room’s furnishings. Items of clothing littered the floor. The place was warm and oppressive. I walked to the bureau. I held the flashlight in the crook between my neck and shoulder, pulled out the drawer, and rummaged through the items they held.
The frisk produced not a thing worth putting on paper. The same outcome came from a search of the bedside table, on which sat a copy of Mein Kampf. Before leaving the room, I ran my hand beneath the pillow and mattress with negative results.
The second door was to a small bathroom. It yielded nothing of consequence.
Before checking the last chamber, I sneaked to the open bay window and studied the street, listening intently. No sounds, except a jalopy grinding its gears as it moved off in the distance, came from outside.
The remaining door opened to a larger bedroom. I stepped in and threw my flashlight beam across it. It was an L-shaped space where the bathroom walls encroached on it to one side. The room held a small iron bed, accompanied by a table and lamp. So someone was sleeping on the sofa, which accounted for the bedding in the sitting room. The other things in the bedroom caught my attention. Somebody had tacked a large map of the United States up on a wall. The thing had pushpins in sundry locations around our region. I moved to it. Scanning it with my flash gave me no clue as to the meaning of the pins’ positions.
Next to the wall hanging was a filing cabinet–in my mind, another oddity for a residential apartment. It piqued my curiosity. Maybe it held information concerning Nick Shane’s location. They’d locked the cabinet, which only added to my interest. I broke my pocketknife trying to pry it open. Then I recalled seeing a small toolbox by the bed. A large screwdriver turned out to be my solution for getting the lock forced. Although it risked the light being seen from the street, I switched on the bedside lamp.
The bottom two cabinet drawers contained charts, maps, rough sketches of buildings’ floor plans, and amateurishly blurred photographs. In the top drawers were sheaves of paper, some of it yellowing. Under the tepid glow of the light, I leafed through the sheets, skimming the pages. Notes, many handwritten, a few typed, listed manufacturing plants, people, addresses, and recent dates. No mention of Shane was in any document I looked at. None of what was there made any sense to me in the rush of the moment.
When I closed the last filing cabinet drawer, the old metal rollers produced a grating sound which echoed through the silent apartment. The thing caused far more racket than ever intended. I stared at the bedroom door and froze, waiting for any kind of response to the noise. Nothing. I glanced at my watch to check how long the guys had been at the restaurant. By my estimation, my time remaining to prowl the joint was rapidly evaporating.
Not one thing I’d searched gave an inkling as to the where Nick Shane might be hiding. So, to force Braun’s hand, if he had a hand to play, that is he knew where my target was, I moved to Plan B. I laid the screwdriver on top of the cabinet and left my knife where it lay. Then I opened several cabinet drawers and tossed part of their contents on the bed, some to the floor. Passing through the main room and hearing no sounds at the bay window, I raised the shade more and opened it wider.
Then I returned to the first bedroom. There, I made sure it was clear someone had rifled the dresser drawers. Before leaving, I pulled a couple of sofa cushions onto the floor. Having read between the lines of the letter from Hans to Shane, my guess was Shane was the ringleader of this little group, whatever its purpose. I’d noted no telephone in Braun’s place. My hope was, if Nick was in the city and Hans knew where, a phone call, even if he could be reached by blower, would not suffice. He’d go see my mark and lead me to him. I escaped the apartment.
Just below the second-floor landing, the noisy laughter of the three thugs climbing the stairs came to me from below. They’d left the restaurant and returned without me being any the wiser. I beat a hasty retreat upward, pivoted into the second-floor passageway on the newel, and moved along the hall. Stopping at a doorway at the far end of the corridor from the staircase, I kept my back to them and pretended to being unlocking the door. The raucous trio rounded the landing and continued their climb, paying me no mind. When their clamor died away, I descended and made my way to the exit and my LaSalle.
Hunkered down in the front seat of my crate, I watched the windows of apartment three-twelve. Soon, shouts came from it. The silhouette of someone appeared in the opening, searching the landscape below. More shouting. One of the trio returned and closed the window. I was slumped in my crate, smiling, when something in the distant shadows caught my eye. In the darkness of a tree’s low limbs, the glow of a cigarette revealed a person standing across the roadway.
In the darkness of a tree’s low limbs, the glow of a cigarette revealed a person standing across the roadway.
The figure was perfectly still, as if lurking, not wanting to be seen. I dismissed the notion it might be Nick Shane. He wouldn’t have hesitated to join his friends. Possibly it was only a poor slob whose old lady didn’t let him smoke in the house. Although whoever it was concerned me a little, I tried to focus on the situation at hand. After a time, Hans barreled out the side door alone and ran to a sedan parked somewhere on the street behind me. I stayed out of sight as he drove past to the intersection. When he made a right turn, I cranked my bucket and followed.
As I made the turn, my headlamps washed across the mystery man emerging from the shadows and running toward a car parked on the main street. It was Detective Hardin. He was a better investigator than I’d hoped. I kept a respectable distance from Hans while the copper fell in behind me. Though I didn’t expect this job to be duck soup, especially with my antagonist lingering in the background, the flatfoot’s actual presence on the scene was throwing a monkey wrench into my caper. As we drove, I couldn’t help but wonder how long the detective had been hiding there, watching the Lafayette building. Had he been there enough time to see me go inside? If so, he was willing to wait and watch before making a play.
After a short but breakneck drive, Braun pulled to the curb outside a run-down boardinghouse. He climbed out of his automobile, scampered up the front steps, and disappeared through the door. My shadow deposited his vehicle in a spot across the street. A few seconds later, I followed Hans. Inside, I contacted an older, full-figured landlady, who put me in mind of the actress Marjorie Main. To gain her no-questions-asked help, I flashed a badge I kept beneath my PI credentials. It looked enough like a real cop’s buzzer it usually got the desired results. I explained I was trying to get a line on one of her tenants. She smiled and nodded her cooperation. When I inquired whether she had a new resident named Nick Shane, she told me she did not. “How about a tenant with a heavy German accent?” I pressed.
“Is that what it is?” she muttered, raising a hand to her mouth. “I thought he was Dutch or something. Never figured German.” She informed me his name was Claude Bolger. He rented room twenty at the rear of the second floor. I thanked her and told her this was a police matter to be held in the strictest confidence. She agreed and disappeared into her kitchen. I hustled outside to my heap and waited. The detective sat in his car, watching and smoking. Finally, Hans came from the boardinghouse alone. He seemed a lot calmer than when he’d gone in. He slid into his boiler and teased the motor alive.
Although I was impatient to snatch Shane and leave town, I felt it was a sucker’s play just then with Hardin so close at hand. My best strategy was to have this excursion appear to be nothing noteworthy to the cop. I hoped following Hans on the return to his place might make my shadow think he was my prime target. So I pulled out behind the young man and bird-dogged him for a distance. At the earliest opportunity I had to lose my pursuer, I made a sharp turn on to a side street, pulling to the curb and cutting my headlamps. No car lights followed me. I decided I needed a drink while I waited to make my move. By luck, I found a neighborhood saloon on the first block. I parked and strolled in.
A gray pall of smoke hung in the crowded joint. I bellied up to the bar and ordered a double Jack Daniels from the bartender who had a hard-knuckled look about him. When I paid the fella, I held a fin out of his reach at my shoulder where he could see it. His eyes widened. “This establishment got a back entrance? Maybe leading to a yard or, better yet, an alley?”
He shrugged, casual-like, while ogling the fiver. “Who wants to know?”
“A lug who’s being followed by a goon who intends to start trouble. The sort of commotion I figure you’d rather have happen outside a place this swanky,” I answered sarcastically.
“Yeah, bub. What you’re lookin’ for is through that swingin’ door,” he replied, jerking his chin toward a doorway at the end of the counter. “It leads to the backroom, then to an alley.” He snatched the bill as I moved it to him. At the same time, he reached under the bar and produced a hefty billy club, laying it next to his bar rag. Its presence got the attention of the barflies idling on either side of me. “Just so’s you know,” he announced in an ominous tone, “I run this here place, and I don’t want no trouble. But I can usually handle what comes my way. If I hafta throw folks outta here, it hurts them. Get me, sport?”
“Understood,” I smiled. “Thanks.” I took my drink to a table, sat facing the door, and set fire to a Chesterfield. At that time, I figured there were two outcomes to tonight’s events. Either Hardin would give up looking for me and he’d return to the Lafayette Towers for a short time before calling it a night and packing it in. Then I’d go back to the rooming house, collect my pigeon and head for home. Or he’d backtrack and find me in this bar at some point.
If there had to be a confrontation, let it happen here and now. And get it the hell over. I wasn’t sure how this thing was going to play out. It seemed, for one reason or another, I was doing a lot more hoping, guessing, and figuring in this case than normal. As my old man used to say, “You pays your nickel, and you takes your chances.” I still planned on returning Shane to Murray either way.
Around twenty-five minutes later, I looked up to see Frank Hardin come into the tavern and ankle toward me. “Whiskey, barkeep. Make it a double. And put it on his tab,” he called to the bartender as he moved and pointed to me. I glanced at barman. He bobbed his head backwards, beckoning me for a word. Just before the big cop sat, I stood. One of his large, hairy hands grabbed my arm to restrain my movement.
“Relax, detective,” I chuckled nonchalantly, waggling my empty glass under his nose. “I need a refill.” He dropped his hand, and I ambled to the counter. Glancing back, I saw he was still watching me intently, uncertain of my next move.
The saloonkeeper walked to me and leaned over the bar. “What the hell, mister! You didn’t say the roughneck chasin’ you was a copper!” he seethed in a harsh whisper, pouring my drink and pointing his chin at the plainclothes gumshoe.
“Oh, so you know him?”
“Yeah, I know the son of a bitch. He comes in from time to time, givin’ me and my customers crap for no reason.” His eyes crawled the room. “Now, you ain’t gonna find any of these slugs at no chamber of commerce meetin’,” he reasoned, looking over my shoulder at the detective. “But there’s no call for him to give ‘em a hard time when they’re mindin’ their own business with a quiet drink.” He poured another whiskey and pushed it to me. “Here. Take this to the crumb. I’m not goin’ outta my way for him.”
“Is he aware of your rear exit?”
“Probably. Maybe. Hell, I don’t know, mister,” he growled.
“Well, tonight, you might get a measure of payback,” I offered. The man looked uncertain. I shot him a reassuring grin, dropped a buck for the drinks, turned and leaned back against the bar to watch Hardin for a second. He was still standing like a coiled spring at the table. Pushing off the counter, I moved to join the bull. I set his hooch beside him and plopped into my seat.
The detective sat down edgily in his chair, the joints of which moved and creaked at receiving his formidable weight. “I seen your car out front and decided to have a drink with ya,” he smiled nastily. After a pause, his face darkened. “What’re you playin’ at, Cooper?” At least I then knew he hadn’t caught up with my true name or even my second alias. “Don’t ever,” he went on, “try to put anything over on me. I dealt with wise guys before, ya know.”
“I wouldn’t dream of trying to outsmart a brainy fella such as yourself, detective.”
His face shaded toward violet. “And don’t crack wise with me, buster. Or I’ll break you into pieces and sell you for parts!” As his anger rose, so his voice increased in volume. It caught the notice of nearby patrons. Several gave him hateful looks before returning to their conversation and drinks. There was no doubt about it. They knew the man well.
“Restrain your charms, detective. I had–”
He leaned over the table. “Why didn’t you come back with your papers, Cooper?” he demanded. “And you didn’t check in to the Bradford the way we agreed.”
Obviously, the brute was used to hectoring those he encountered. But I wasn’t playing his game. “I didn’t agree to any such thing.”
“Well, where did you land, Lindbergh?”
“Noneya.”
“What?”
“Noneya. Noneya business, Hardin.”
He flinched at my words. “Why you–!”
“This place got a bathroom?”
He stopped in mid-grumble, looking flustered. “What?”
“I gotta go to the can.”
He sat back in his seat. “Hell, I don’t know. Ask him,” he snarled, jerking his thumb toward the barman. When I stood, he grabbed my arm. “No monkey business, shamus, or you’ll be damned sorry.” When I gave him a faint nod, he released his grip.
With my companion eyeing me, I meandered slowly to the bar. Ordering another round of drinks and dropping a five-dollar bill on the counter, I asked the bartender to point to the swinging door, which he did. The detective appeared calmer, so I strolled to and through the opening. Once in the backroom, I hustled out the rear exit to my LaSalle. After cranking the motor to life, I hurriedly drove to Shane’s boarding house. I figured to get a good head start by the time Hardin caught on. Even then, I counted on him not making any connection with Hans’ visit to the rooming house right away. With any luck, he’d go to the Lafayette Towers to stake out the joint. There I was, hoping and guessing again. Funny thing. The excitement of the situation had diminished my pain and body aches.
* * *
In time, I eased my heap to the curb in front of the boardinghouse. Inside, the sultry rhythms of a jazz band sounded low somewhere on the ground floor. Other than that, the fleabag joint was as quiet as a morgue tenant. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and located room twenty.
From what I could tell, the other side of the door was dead still. It was late. So, if Shane hadn’t left the place, he was bunked down for the night, which I counted on. I reached into the glass bowl covering a hallway lightbulb nearby and extinguished the light. My knocking brought no response. I rapped my knuckles solidly on the door’s surface a second time. Silence. Then, as I was ready to pull my piece of hard celluloid out again, I heard a faint rustling and a soft padding on the floor beyond the door. A sleepy voice with a thick German accent asked, “Ja? Who is it?”
I reached into the glass bowl covering a hallway lightbulb nearby and extinguished the light.
“It’s David,” I mumbled low, but loud enough for the goon on the other side to hear me.
As he unlocked and turned the knob, I braced for my next move. “Ach du liebe! Well, dis better be gut, ‘cause–”
Before the young Kraut could finish his muzzy thought, I bent a shoulder to the slight opening and lunged forward. The force of the door blasting his way knocked Shane backward. I tumbled into the pitch-black room. We fell together in a tangled mess. The resilience of youth allowed my opponent to get upright first. Groping in the dark, I found his legs while I struggled to make it to my feet. As I did, he pummeled punches down on top of my head, fortunately one of the harder parts of my body.
I managed to find the bed and, using it, was able to pull myself up as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I made out Shane’s form, silhouetted against a window, which was barely lighter than the rest of the place. He came at me with a roundhouse swing. Ducking under it, I responded with a stiff jab to the pit of his stomach, followed by a clout aimed at his noggin. He somehow dodged my follow-up, causing my fist to slam into his shoulder. Nonetheless, he staggered back against his bed.
That gave me time to slip my sap from my pocket. As he came off the bed and lunged for me, I sidestepped him and bludgeoned him on what I hoped in the faint light was his collarbone. He stumbled headfirst to the floor with a yelp of agony. I dropped onto his back to hold him immobile. For good measure, I tapped my blackjack behind an ear–not with enough force to crack his skull, but sufficient to keep him asleep for a while. His moans subsided. I returned my “persuader” to its resting place. Again, the guile and experience of age had overcome the pliancy of youth. I paused for a painful minute to catch my breath.
Praying for sound sleepers on the floor, I quickly closed the door and listened. I heard no noises of responding or nosy neighbors. I located the key switch of a lightbulb dangling in the middle of the room. The resulting light revealed my combatant was, in fact, Nick Shane. At the same time, I also realized the man had been wearing only a Henley undershirt, naked below the waist, as he slept. Suddenly, I was extremely grateful our encounter hadn’t turned in to a wrestling match. Now, I had the unenviable task of getting duds on this hunk of deadweight. Rolling him over, I saw a young buck who was tall and stern looking. Just your average Nordic superman.
In our struggle, Shane’s undershirt had pulled up. On the left side of his torso, slightly above his nipple, he had tattooed “”. Below the two lightning bolts were the words, “meine ehre heißt treue”. Beyond the “guten morgen,” “sehr gut,” and “auf Wiedersehen” our neighborhood baker, Herr Hemstrought, used to toss at my mom during our visits to his shop, my German was nil.
I studied my pigeon. Forget the undershorts–I didn’t want to get to know this jerk that well. His undershirt was a good enough top for our return trip. I gingerly struggled the unconscious body into a pair of trousers and shoes which were handy. I glanced around. There was nothing else of significance in the lodgings. The last item on my plan in Shane’s lodgings was to tear the bedsheet into strips and stuff them into my coat pockets.
Throwing the bum over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, I left the room and descended the staircase. The landlady, dressed in a faded flannel bathrobe, stood sleepily to one side of the bottom step. Her hair had so many curlers, bobby pins, and hardware in it, I thought she might be able to pick up radio station WLW out of Cincinnati. The old lady had the collar of her robe pulled close around her throat as if she’d felt a sudden chill.
She recognized me from my earlier visit. “What’s goin’ on, officer? I heard a ruckus.”
In an attempt to head off too many questions, I whispered, “Sorry if I disturbed you, ma’am. Police business again. He resisted arrest, but he’s okay. Only unconscious. When I get this dangerous man downtown, I’ll come back and give you more information,” I lied, stopping only long enough to shift Shane’s weight on my shoulder.
“Thank you, officer,” she answered solemnly, staring wide-eyed at my “prisoner” and holding the front door open for me.
At the LaSalle, I hastily deposited Shane into the passenger seat. With the strips of bed sheeting, I stuffed a gag into his mouth and bound his ankles. I bent his upper body over onto his legs from the sitting position and used strips to tie his hands behind him. Then I employed the last pieces of the cloth to bind his torso to his thighs so he couldn’t sit up. I covered him with my trench coat so he wouldn’t be seen as easily in the car. There was one more stop before I left town.
Back at the Union Inn, I hustled to my room and grabbed my travel bag. The time had come, as our old man used to say, to make like a horse turd and hit the trail. If Detective Hardin could read, he had my auto’s tag number. It would only be a matter of time before he’d track me. But hopefully, I would be back in my home state by that time. And I’d deal with that eventuality if it came.
* * *
Saturday, October 26th
We made good time on the open highway before the sun rose. The first diffused light of day revealed patches of fog lay in the fields and hollows around us. Dark, turbulent-looking clouds hung low in the sky and produced occasional rain squalls. The pressure and activity of the last thirty-six hours were catching up with me, however, as I tried to focus on the stretch of road ahead. The ache in my ribs was returning. My eyelids were growing heavy. I was bone tired. My weariness became a spreading numbness behind my eyes.
My traveling companion finally awoke from his involuntary slumber. He shrieked angrily into the gag. We were in the middle of nowhere. Easing to the side of the pavement, I pulled my coat off him and removed the cloth from his mouth. It didn’t help his disposition any. As best he could in his hog-tied condition, the young man raised his head from between his knees, turned it in my direction, and screamed in his native tongue. His pan grew violently red, spittle flowing from his yap and hanging in long, spidery threads from his chin.
I’d seen newsreels of Hitler giving speeches. Perhaps every Kraut looked that way when they spoke. Now, as I said, I don’t speak Hun, but it’s my honest opinion that he proclaimed me to be everything but a child of God. I never mind getting cussed out–Lord knows it’s happened enough times. But I at least want to keep track of what I’m being called and, perhaps, even learn a new phrase or two. I slapped his face hard. While he was still stunned, I returned the gag to what I considered its proper place and got back on the road.
A few miles further along the road, Nick tried to get my attention. Again, I pulled over and removed the torn sheet stuffed into his gob. “I haf to piss, damn you!” When I hesitated, he shot me a nasty smile and asked, “You vant I do it here? Hmm?”
I let out a heavy sigh, as much from weariness as from the current circumstances. Not wanting to stop, but preferring not to clean a mess in my heap even more, I opted for the first option. Looking around, I saw a thicket of trees off the roadway ahead. “Hang on. We’ll pull off soon.”
A minute later, I eased into the edge of the copse. No one was in sight. I untied the binds keeping Shane bent over in the seat and removed his shoes. My thought was running barefoot across rough ground might slow the Nazi should he try to escape. Stepping away from the door, I cleared my rod from its shoulder holster. “Make just one funny move, Shane, and I’ll blow your head off. The judge wants you back dead or alive,” I lied. He tossed me a nonchalant grin. It pissed me off. “You won’t be the first lug I’ve put down like a rabid dog,” I asserted woodenly, pressing the barrel of the .45 against one of his nostrils. “You decide, ‘cause you’re dust to me. I get paid either way.” He blanched faintly and looked unsettled. Over time, I’ve found doubt inspires caution and cooperation.
Stepping away from the door, I cleared my rod from its shoulder holster.
With the working end of my gat pressed to his temple, I helped my prisoner from the car. I bent him forward and untied one hand so he could complete the “procedure” with relative ease. The other mitt I kept tightly bound behind him with the fabric in my firm grip. We walked to the nearest tree. He turned his head to me. “You expect I do it here?”
I pressed the barrel against the tender-looking knot behind his left ear. He winced in pain. “Yes. I expect you to do it here. And now dammit!” When he finished, we returned to the automobile, where he gave me a stiff little Germanic bow in apparent appreciation. I bound him in the seat as before. Again, I covered him with my trench coat. We had to pass through several towns between there and home. I didn’t want any nosy pikers seeing my cargo and calling the law.
* * *
The trip was wearing on me. That night, around the halfway point of the return journey, I pulled into a grove of trees off a dirt side road and caught a little shuteye. I slept lying across the seat and on Shane’s back, so I might know whether he made the slightest move. He never stirred. Possibly he was still thinking of those other fellas I’d had to “put down.”
* * *
Sunday, October 27th
After a couple of hours’ sleep, we were on the road again. A short time later, we drove into a small town, where I decided to top off my fuel tank for the remaining drive. I found a somewhat isolated little gasoline station on the outskirts of the village and pulled up to a telephone booth next to the garage. Because it was Sunday morning, I wasn’t sure whether Detective Waddell would be at headquarters. But it was time to try to contact him. At the blower, I dropped my nickel, dialed, and asked for long distance. When I finally got through to the detectives’ bureau, they located Waddell for me. I explained my situation to Rob and made arrangements to bring Shane in. He said he’d be waiting. My friend also told me he’d contact Hertz so he could meet me at the police station.
As we were talking, some bird started nosing around my car, peering in the passenger window. His interest made me anxious. When I pegged the receiver from my call, I eased out of the booth in his direction. I was exhausted, achy, hungry, and needed a bath, a shave, and a clean shirt. And, though I was in no mood for any wise head to be sticking their beezer in my business, I had to play it casually. “Can I help you, bub?”
“I dunno. This your boiler?”
I rubbed a thumb against my stubbled jaw to maintain my self-control. I’m not what some might call a man of summer temperament. “Who’s asking and what’s it to you?” I asked gently.
“Looks like you got somebody under a coat in the passenger seat, mister. And tied up, too,” he declared, watching me with suspicion. “Appears to be something fishy.”
“Yeah, I do, as a matter of fact.” The scrawny yokel looked stunned at my admission, before I pressed on, “But it’s nothing to call out the marines over.” The mug’s face darkened. I chuckled, “It’s my kid brother.” I nodded in Shane’s direction. “He’s been out on a bender. Got hold of some bad giggle juice. Been wanting to fight me all night.” I pointed to my shiner and, chuckling, added, “Strong little fighter for his weight class.”
“Thought I heard him crying out in there.”
“Puking’s more like it. Been doing it ever since I got him out of a jam last night.” I reached for the door handle. “If you don’t mind getting splashed with a lot of vomit, I’ll show you.” The guy swallowed hard, shook his head, and took half a step back. I laughed. “He doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll be cleaning his mess up later this afternoon. Anyway, I’m trying to get him home before our old man finds out and cuts him out of the will. A teetotaler, our old man.”
“Nah, that’s okay,” he said weakly, shaking his noggin again. “Just noticed him.” He glanced Shane’s way. “Good luck,” he mumbled, before walking away.
After filling my fuel tank, we hit the road once more. At one point, my prisoner groused he was hungry. I assured him the jailhouse he was headed for could provide the food he needed.
* * *
Midafternoon, I eased my crate into my hometown and drove to the station house. Parking across the street, I unwrapped Murray’s “gift,” except for the bindings on his wrists, and escorted him inside. Shane’s rag-bound wrists put a few uniforms in the lobby on edge until the desk sergeant, a copper I knew, calmed things. Waddell had told him to expect me. In short order, the detective appeared with a jubilant Murray Hertz in tow. I turned the fugitive over to the pair. Feeling totally exhausted and in need of a shower, I agreed to meet them at Harry’s tavern later that night and made a hasty exit.
* * *
A shower, a shave, and three hours’ sleep were just what the doctor ordered. Still pretty achy, but refreshed, I set out for the Paradise Tavern as dusk settled over the city.
On the way, I stopped off for a deck of coffin nails at a local market. As I was coming from the store and turning toward my crate, a now-familiar face swaggered carelessly along the deserted sidewalk in my direction. I ducked into the shadows of the alley next to the grocer’s, pulled my gun, tugged my hat low, and waited. When the rowdy drew even with me, I mumbled a request for a light. As he turned, I crashed my weapon firmly to the side of his head. When he fell against me, I dragged him into the narrow passage. My rib cage continued to torment me with every move. But I was determined.
After laying his body prone, I stretched out his arms and flattened his hands on the pavement. In the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp, I slammed the butt of my .45 hard on each hand and as many fingers as possible in short order. “Sohn einer hündin!” I growled under my breath with each blow. I, too, could “sprechen sie Deutsch” a little. Bones cracked and groans came from the unconscious man, but he didn’t stir. Holstering my iron, I nonchalantly returned to the LaSalle. For a second or so, I sat in the car and, setting fire to a Chesterfield, looked back toward the alley entrance disappearing in the twilight. It’d be a while before Morris O’Brien worked anybody else over.
* * *
I ambled into Harry’s at the agreed-upon time and found my two pals holding down a table. Marty, my brother, was with them. Murray called out to Harry for a drink for me before I even reached their location. After greetings from the trio, including a grateful but gentle pat on the back from the bondsman, I plopped into a chair. It was good to be among friends again.
“How’s my pal, Shane, doing now that he’s where he belongs?” I asked.
“You mean Schӧn?” Murray corrected me. “We learned his real name is Nils Schӧn.” He threw back his drink and went on, “And he’s in this country illegally.”
“Huh,” was all I could offer to the revelation.
“Yeah. And now the Feds are interested in him,” Rob put in. “But your boy is doing the clam right now, although he keeps screaming for a Rechtsan-something. We’re still trying to figure that one out.”
“So, what was he doing here? What was he up to?”
“Who knows?” Waddell said sharply, a severe look on his face. “But somehow his buddies you crossed paths with were probably involved. The Federal boys are getting ready to round them up, too.”
Marty finished his drink and asked, “Did you have any trouble picking up Schӧn? I mean, considering your aches.”
“Nothing I couldn’t deal with. Oh, by the way, Rob, I met up with your pal on the police force over there.”
“Yeah, I’m aware of that fact. He’s already telephoned me to see if I know you.” He chuckled, “I told him you were someone we have our eye on from time to time.”
“Thanks, friend.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Hardin. He’s too busy kissing the Federal agents’ asses during their investigation in his territory for the time being to be bothered with a nobody such as you, Gil.”
“Thanks again, pally. But if the Feds have gotten involved, this Schӧn fella must’ve been up to no good in a big way. Bigger even than a murder.”
“Right, right. Well, now we think it was more than a simple homicide,” Murray added, “if there is such a thing. The guy he killed happened to be a member of my synagogue’s congregation. And after I read the detective’s report detailing the crime and the witness statements, I believe the victim was murdered because he was Jewish!” Hertz exclaimed. “It’s why I hired you, Gil.” I sat back in surprise. The bail bondsman leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Now I also have questions concerning the judge’s leanings. But Detective Waddell and I are going to address the issue tomorrow.”
The guy he killed happened to be a member of my synagogue’s congregation.
Rob signaled his agreement. “By the by, I’ve turned the letter from Hans to Schӧn over to the Feds to see what they can make from it. Listen,” the bondsman continued after a sip of his drink, “it’s no secret what the German government and many of the country’s citizens think of Jews. The headlines for the last couple of years have shown the steps they have taken, the laws they’ve passed reflecting their disdain, even hatred.”
Murray’s outcry attracted the attention of another regular, J. W. Altmeyer, who sauntered to our table, drink in hand. Hertz and the rest of us acknowledged our visitor with friendly affirmations. J. W., as we addressed him, was occasionally in heated discussions with other tavern customers who defended the German government’s policies. The man was particularly concerned about the developments over there, because he still had family in Würzburg, a town around sixty miles from Nuremburg, the medieval city and symbolic heart of Nazi Germany. Initially, Altmeyer listened to our conversation and remained silent.
“So that’s why you said it was a ‘personal’ thing, Murray?” I asked. He nodded unhappily. Then I remembered something. “Could be there’s no connection, but Schӧn had a tattoo on his chest.” I explained the two lightning bolts and tried to remember the German printed below them. My memory faltered on the exact phrase. “There were four words. I recall the first one being ‘meine’ and the last was similar to our word ‘true.’”
Altmeyer grunted. All eyes edged to him. “Mind if I kibitz?” The table’s consensus was we welcomed his input. He looked to Waddell, “Just so you know, Rechtsanwalt is German for attorney.” Then he leaned in over the table between Marty and Rob. Producing a piece of paper and a pencil, he wrote out something. He then slid the sheet across and turned it right side up toward me. “Is that what you saw?”
I was pretty sure I recognized the words. “Yeah! That’s them!”
Those gathered passed the paper around, studying the writing. None knew what the phrase meant. Altmeyer pulled a chair from another table and joined us. “First, Gil, those aren’t lightning bolts. They’re SS, stylized with Armanen runes. They represent the German Schutzstaffel, which literally means ‘Protection Squadron.’ It’s an agency responsible for security and surveillance within the Reich. In carrying out their Führer’s fiats, my brother tells me, they also spread terror across the country. They even raided Professor Einstein’s home, searching for arms and ammunition, in March of ’33.” The man paused while Murray ordered another round, including schnapps for Altmeyer. “Those words, ‘meine ehre heißt treue,’ translate ‘my honor is loyalty.’ It’s the motto of the German SS.”
“But it still doesn’t explain what Schӧn and his cronies were up to,” Waddell interjected.
“Could the Nazis have exported their terror tactics and mayhem to countries they perceive to be their enemies, today or in the future? I assume there are others, like this group you encountered, all across this country,” J. W. asserted. “It’s what I’ve been warning of for a couple of years now. Call it informed speculation, if you want, but I think they might be preparing the way for the storm to come. I’d suggest this is simply the lull before that storm.”
J. W.’s words made me recall what I’d found in the bedroom in Hans’ apartment. Could I have seen more than I realized? Possibly the pins on the map had to do with the Friends of New Germany groups rather than industrial complexes. Maybe both. What if Altmeyer was right? Perhaps it was the “maybes” that caused us to sit silently, contemplating what it might mean for our country, for the world. ©