by Dion Baia
Down on street level, a dozen police cars arrived at the address. Uniformed officers secured the abandoned touring car left by the burglars and descended upon the building.
Cagney finally discovered in the filing cabinet what he’d been looking for: bundles of files labeled “Classified” and “Do Not Copy”, with paperclips attached. He gathered everything from the folder and methodically placed the paperclipped documents into his large briefcase.
During all of this, the prowler in the ski mask remained motionless near the open window, waiting.
Bogart continued to stare at the cleaning lady, stepping forward until he was about a foot in front of her, looking deep into her sobbing, terrified face. He cocked his head to the left, as if in thought. Even the secretary was startled by his fixation, looking between the woman and the tall, sinister figure.
Down the hall the enormous burglar hidden behind the Edward G. mask stopped upon the cabinet marked PENN CENTRAL RAILROAD. In no time he had the lock on the cabinet open and searched through its contents. He paused upon the blueprints labeled GRAND CENTRAL TERMINAL. He carefully ripped them out of the book, put everything back how it had been found, and calmly left the room, locking the inner door just as he found it.
Bogart’s gaze still hadn’t wavered as his cohorts finished up gathering the files they had come for. He startled the office staff by speaking, moreover in German. “Sprichst du Deutsch?” then he repeated in English, “Do you speak German?”
The older woman began to shake with fright. Tears flowed, streaming down her face as she nodded. “I—Jawohl….” She was barely able to reply in the affirmative.
Bogart pressed on. “When did you come to America?”
“In thirty-nine, when Hitler invaded Poland…”
“In der massenflucht.” Bogart continued once again in English. “You are from Bolshevik maybe? That region?”
The cleaning lady was astounded. “Why—that is right, I…I am Bolshevik….”
A smile could be detected by how his voice sounded from behind the mask. “Ja, I know my Jews.”
The prowler in black who was standing like a sentinel sprang to life. He walked out of the office, through the outer area, and out into the hallway. He crossed over to the stairwell door and began to listen.
Down in the lobby seventy-nine floors below, the police, with the help of Lamont and now other building personnel, completed shutting down all the elevators, except for one which they had commandeered and, with the use of a fire marshal’s key, programmed into emergency use. They packed in as many men as it would allow and started up.
The prowler walked back over to the office door and looked to his leader, as if silently conveying a message. The creeper behind the Cagney mask took the cue, secured his briefcase with stolen documents, and headed out into the hallway to join the ski-masked prowler.
Bogart looked from the woman to his men, sensing their departure. In one slick, fluid motion he drew his .22 and pointed it at the woman’s face. She let out a loud yelp and the secretary screamed. The older agent on the other side of the room held out his hand as if to ask him to stop.
He held the barrel in her face, as if a jury were deliberating. After a long moment he relaxed his arm and lowed the weapon. “You are very lucky tonight, my little Bolshevik. Even acknowledging, though, your kind are the filthiest of the lot.”
He stood there, gazing coldly with a deep pleasure into the souls of her eyes then exited the office.
Overcome with emotion, the cleaning lady collapsed to her knees and sobbed uncontrollably. The secretary threw her arms around her in an attempt to comfort her.
“My God…,” she said through tears. “How do I know that voice?”
In the hall they were joined by Edward G., who had just finished locking the Department of Transit clerical office, being careful to leave it exactly as it had been. Bogart walked up to Cagney, nodded, and gestured with his head. He set down his briefcase and walked back into the office with his machine gun in hand.
Bogart said to the prowler in German, “The police are on their way up, then?”
The prowler nodded. There was a loud burst of machine gun fire from the office as Cagney unload a full magazine at the office staff inside. After he was satisfied, he returned to the others.
Bogart next commanded, “Then we are Code Pollen.”
Upon hearing this, the group was on the move. The creeper behind the Edward G. mask handed the Grand Central blueprints to the masked Cagney man, who reloaded his gun then delicately put them in the same briefcase with the other looted files. They all proceeded down the hall to the far stairwell. When they opened the door, they headed up, not down.
They quickly climbed the flights of stairs and made it as high as that stairwell could take them, and the four exited by the enclosed office area on the lower observation deck.
The men rushed past the US Postal Office door and the employee inside noticed them running.
“What the fu—?”
The group entered another door that led to the final staircase that went to the very top of the building.
On the seventy-ninth floor, the police exited off the elevator and ran toward the Strategic Services Office.
At the very top of the building, a door was opened and a stream of hall light partly illuminated the observation deck where the airship access usually was. The four thieves ran out onto the deck. No zeppelins were currently tethered to the building.
The police exited the office on seventy-nine and quickly determined the robbers could have only gone up. Some jumped back into the elevator, while others took the stairs, and they all headed toward the roof.
On the observation deck, Edward G. went into the large duffel bag on his back and took out four backpacks.
They dropped their guns, secured the packs on their backs, and climbed over the tall, high fence that protected people from falling.
At the same time the police arrived on the lower observation deck and started up the final stairs to the very top. They cautiously burst out of the doorway and just caught a brief glance of the intruders before the four masked men jumped off the building. Shocked, the police rushed to the fence, thinking the men had committed suicide.
The robbers pulled their ripcords and the parachutes opened.
The police stood and watched the four men float down to freedom.
“Holy shit…,” one cop said to no one in particular.
With the Empire State Building in the background, the four floated in virtual darkness toward the street. Floodlights on the surrounding buildings began to point their beams at the high observation deck to see why its bright lights were on.
Barely visible on the dark horizon of the abyss was the glow of the white navigation light on the nose cone of a Transit Authority Department blimp, blinking in regular intervals. Sluggishly making its way toward the aerial mooring station, it unintentionally caused the parachutists to flop and sway, rippling like pollen carried away in the breeze further and further away on the wind.
Chapter 3
WALTER EUGENE MORRIS, PI
During the daylight hours, New York City was pretty much the same during wartime as it had been before. Even with a war on against the Nazis in Europe and also with Japan out in the Pacific, not much of the city’s day-to-day life was affected by the conflict. Of course, there were more soldiers around town—their existence was omnipresent—and more American flags were in the windows of residences and storefronts as a sign of solidarity with American boys overseas.
The area the average New Yorker felt affected day to day, like the rest of the country, was the rationing. Aluminum, rubber, and various other metals were in demand, and the country had to live under rationing. Even certain foods were restricted, going so far in the city as to suggest meatless Tuesdays and Fridays to help conserve meat. Victory gardens popped up wherever there
was free space, in vacant lots and even in some of the city’s parks. People grew all kinds of vegetables to compensate so fresh produce could be available to the public.
Up in Harlem, life was identical to that in Midtown. People went about their daily business, some even forgetting about the conflict that was happening literally a world away. For some, if it wasn’t happening in the city—or more specifically on their block—it wasn’t important. It was “outta sight, outta mind”. For most people, aside from listening to the wireless and hearing the updates on the bulletins or in between their favorite shows, the newspaper provided the best glimpse into the war. The many daily editions would often sell out immediately, helping to curb that addiction of those wanting to say up to date with the latest news.
The morning turned out to be the making of a beautiful day with the fog and wet weather clearing out with the sunrise. The streets were crowded with folk going about their usual routines. On the newsstands the morning editions of the competing newspapers hung clothespinned across a line of rope so their headlines could easily be read.
A customer in mechanic’s overalls picked up the latest edition of a paper, set it down on the counter, asked for a pack of Lucky Strikes, and went into his pocket for change to pay. The headline on the paper read:
RUMORS OF HITLER’S DEATH AS ALLIES REACH OUTSKIRTS OF BERLIN!!
From the tall, long window of his corner office on the third floor overlooking the intersection of the old Lee Building on 125th and Park Avenue, Walter Morris watched with disinterest as the mechanic picked up his pack of smokes and newspaper and stepped off the curb, heading north on 125th toward the auto mechanic shop where he worked. You get to know the locals in your own neighborhood, the familiar faces you see day-to-day like clockwork.
Walter always watched. It seemed every waking hour of his existence he was watching. Not that it bothered him; he actually took an odd pleasure in taking an interest in other peoples’ lives. So much so that he turned it into his vocation. He was a private detective.
He shared this office and was a junior agent in the practice with his partner and mentor, an Englishman named Jacob Roland. Back when Walter had run away from the demons of his past, or the one demon, he’d gotten work in the boiler room on the transatlantic luxury liner RMS Olympic and befriended the ship’s detective, Jacob Roland. When Walter became homesick for the old neighborhood, Roland decided to leave the high seas and the extravagant floating hotel behind and open a practice in Walter’s old neck of the woods, Harlem. Very forward thinking on Jacob’s part, having an integrated detective agency, a Limey and a Negro, something Walter joked was like Al Jolson’s “Me and My Shadow.” They were able to get twice the business, moving between both worlds: the white middle- and upper-class clientele of cocktail parties, the suburbs and Central Park West, and the local black communities of Harlem and the other black neighborhoods Walter was able to work within. He thought he could give back to his community, help in any way he could.
Walter was in his late thirties with light skin, green eyes, and dark hair he kept long and had chemically treated to be straight, that he slicked back on his head. He was of average height, about 5′10″, and had a sinewy, athletic frame.
His suit jacket was off and hung up, and his thumbs were inside the pockets of his vest as he listened to the story being recounted behind him by the lady seated at the front of his desk. He’d turned on his Zenith wireless when she first arrived to make it a more relaxed environment for his visitor, so the scene could be as comfy as an Errol Flynn Saturday matinee romance picture, and at the very moment, Glenn Miller and his gorgeous and seductive “Moonlight Serenade” was purring out of the speaker, filling in the rough edges of any uncomfortable silences or pregnant pauses a potential client might have. He and Roland realized that having calming music on in the background could really help put an anxious or nervous mind at ease.
Walter watched the man in the mechanic’s overalls until he crossed out of view and refocused his eyes on the “ROLAND & MORRIS, PI” sign stenciled outward on the large window, making a minute readjustment to the blinds to ensure the day’s sun wasn’t making the room too bright for the young lady and killing the mood Walter was trying to create.
He turned when he heard her voice crack and she began to cry, attempting to muffle her sobs so she could continue with her story.
“And then on Tuesday, I was doing the laundry…and I found a train ticket stub in his pocket. It was a ticket to Bridgeport and back. Why…I mean, he has no business going on a train to Bridgeport. He would have told me if it was job-related….”
The young woman seated in front of his desk was beautiful, around twenty-five years of age and wearing an alluring red dress that was tailored to her figure. A matching large-brimmed hat was playfully cocked to the left. She glanced up at him when he turned back from the window, but only one eye was visible because of her brim. Tears began to fall down her cheek.
“Hey, hey…,” Walter started in a calm, soothing, and almost seductive tone, “…I can’t have a doll like you going to pieces on me, now. Calm down and take a breath.” Walter picked up a box of tissues, crossed from the window around the desk with a drink in hand, and offered them to her. She took a tissue and attacked her tears before her eyeliner started to run. “Listen,” he said in a warm, kind voice, “I think I know what the problem is.” He sat down on the corner of his desk and put his cigarette out in his ashtray.
The woman immediately smiled. “Oh, I knew you’d be able to help…I just didn’t know what I was gonna do.”
“It’ll be fine. You have nothing to worry about. I have the perfect man for the job. My partner, Mister Roland, would—”
“Who?”
“My partner, Jacob Roland.”
“Your partner?” The smile left her face, and she angled her head so both eyes were now visible. “What do you mean?”
Walter stumbled, thrown off by her change in tone. He smiled before answering, like he were taking on the most serious and delicate of questions. “Um, yes my associate, Mister Roland.” Walter raised his finger and pointed to the other desk in the room under the large window on the Park Avenue side of the office. “He would be exactly what you need for this sort of—”
“I don’t understand. Why can’t you help me?”
Oh boy. Walter hated this part. “I’m sorry, Missus Stodhart, but I don’t do divorce work. My partner oversees that type of situation. I deal with insurance and criminal investigations, missing persons, or worse, say—”
“Who said anything about divorce?”
“I certainly don’t want this to come off the wrong way, Missus Stodhart, but when you get right down to it, what you’re asking me to do is go see what your husband is doing at night and report back to you. To me that falls under divorce work because, more often than not, divorce is where that kind of thing ends up.”
“Why not, then?”
“Why don’t I take on divorce work? Honestly?” Walt thought she had been sincere enough with him, so he tried his best with her. “It’s all too messy for me. I’m not a very smart man, Missus Stodhart, in the grand scheme of things, and I can’t begin to dive down the rabbit hole as to why a man—” Walter extended his hand palm up toward her, “—or a woman, may end up doing the things that nature, temptation, attraction, or whatever you want to call it, makes them do from time to time that may be termed as infidelity. I don’t like to take a decisive role in situations like that if I can help it. All that comes with way too much judgement for me on people and their motivations in life. I try not to judge people too much. I like to keep an open mind about folks in general. So, that whole end of the business I do not deal in.”
“Where is this other man now?”
Walter almost had to think about that before he answered, predicting how his response might go. “He’s out on a case.”
“You’re telling me that the m
an I have to talk to is out running around for some other poor woman, and you are doing nothing but drinking and listening to Tom Mix and his Ralston Straight Shooters and won’t get off your tail to help me?” Anger and outrage had replaced her sadness and crying.
This was exactly why Walter avoided this type of thing. “Well,” he chuckled in embarrassment, “I wouldn’t put it so hopelessly. I am always here to lend moral support, and I could most certainly get things started on this end to get the ball rolling. Jacob would just take over—”
“I don’t believe this!” Mrs. Stodhart stood up and walked toward the door. “I sit here, waste my time pouring my heart out to you, and that’s your answer?”
Walter raised his eyebrows and tried to make light of the situation. “Well—”
“I have no more words for such a fink like you. Good day, Mister Morris. I hope you have fun withering away in the bottom of that glass of gin.”
“Whiskey, Missus Stodhart. I drink whiskey.”
She hesitated for a brief moment then opened the office door that led to the small waiting area, and stormed through the outer office to the hall, and was gone. The echo of her high heels stomping on the linoleum faded as she made her way to the stairs. Walter stood there confused, not quite understanding what he had said or from what point the conversation went sour. He could only smile.
From the outer office, a brunette with milky skin stuck her head in the doorway. Her name was Tatum Marie Sullivan. “You really know how to sweet talk ’em, don’t ya, Walter?” She smiled.
“I got you here, didn’t I?” Walter threw his hands up and walked back toward the cabinet that had the Zenith on top. Tatum came out from behind the desk and entered the inner office. She stood about 5′5″ now that she’d removed her heels to be more comfortable, with a tight dress that accentuated a petite body that could stop a clock. Walter changed the station from mood music to the news of the day.
“…five days on, the country is feeling the shock over the sudden and tragic death of President Roosevelt, the father to us all who saw us through this horrible war. Even though the campaign in Europe may actually be over in weeks, it will not be as sweet a victory now that we have lost FDR. Let us pause for a moment and give you the other news of the day….”
