Dead Lock

by B. David Warner

  “They are,” said Scotty. “But I reserved the whole top floor of the Ojibway two months ago. By the way, how was Negaunee?”

  “I want to talk with you about it later.”

  The fantail seemed as crowded as the salon. Scotty pointed to a group near the back rail that included G.P. and several other men. “Your uncle looks like he could use some help and I’ve got to check on the buffet,” he said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

  I walked back to the group where an animated discussion was taking place. Mayor Roland Swenson was waving a finger at my uncle.

  “I’m telling you, G.P., stories of an attack on the locks are going to hurt business in this town. People sense danger and they won’t come anywhere near Sault Ste. Marie.”

  “People have a right to know what’s going on,” G.P. said. “Who knows? Blades might be right; you might even draw a bigger crowd. People are funny that way.”

  “Business is booming,” said another of the men. “People are already coming into town for Sunday’s dedication. Why take a chance of ruining that?”

  “What if the threat is real?” G.P. said. “What if just one plane gets past the artillery? Why, there will be thousands there to watch the ceremony. Every life will be at risk.”

  “I seriously doubt a plane could get past all those heavy guns,” said the mayor. “In fact, I’d like to see the Krauts try.”

  Scotty joined the group just in time. “Chef Joseph says the buffet’s ready, gentlemen. Don’t keep the prime rib waiting.”

  The conversation halted as the participants headed toward the salon.

  84

  The crowd had thinned by ten o’clock. Some had bid their goodnights; others had gone to dance on the upper deck. I could hear the band topside playing I’ll be Seeing You. Scotty and I stood among a small group lingering on the fantail that included G.P., Jack Crawford and a dozen or so others.

  The sun had disappeared and ambient light shone from a string of small, colorful bulbs strung along the roof of the fantail, turning faces shades of reds, blues and greens.

  The earlier argument of whether the newspaper should warn of a possible attack on the locks had been revived shortly after the meal. G.P. ended it quickly, telling the mayor he alone determined what stories the Soo Morning News ran. I didn’t know it then, but he had already written an editorial for tomorrow’s edition discussing the subject.

  I had wanted to talk with Jack Crawford about finding Jimmy Pecora’s body; I still had suspicions he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Something about his story just didn’t add up. But he seemed to be avoiding me. I noticed Curt Neumann chatting with him briefly and thought of walking over to them, but Crawford quickly excused himself and went to the bar for a refill.

  A bit later, Curt sauntered up to me, by now slightly inebriated. “Kate, that guy, Jack Crawford. He’s your boss, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Not well at all. I’ve only been here in the Soo a matter of weeks.”

  “He claims he worked for the Cleveland News Courier.”

  “Yes. Until last December, I believe.”

  “Kate, I have friends back in Cleveland who work for the News Courier.”

  “Yes?”

  “I asked Crawford if he knew them.”

  “Didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but his answers seemed a bit vague. So I decided to test him. I made up a name and asked Crawford if he knew the man.”

  “And he said he did?”

  “Yes. But I think he must have suspected I was on to him. He excused himself and went to the bar. Never came back.

  “Kate, Jack Crawford never worked for the Courier. I’d bet my last dollar on that.”

  85

  Something smelled fishy and it wasn’t the wind blowing in off the St. Marys River.

  Regardless of the fact that Curt Neumann had been over served at the bar, his conviction that Jack Crawford hadn’t worked for the News Courier alarmed me.

  I decided to check it out. I saw G.P. near the door of the fantail saying good-bye to two of the congressmen and walked over.

  “Big weekend coming up,” I heard him say. “Got to get my beauty sleep.”

  I caught his eye and motioned that I wanted to talk a moment before he left. He finished with the politicians and came over to me.

  “What is it, Kate?”

  “It’s Jack Crawford,” I said. “He had a conversation a while ago with a reporter I know who worked for the Cleveland Plain Dealer at one time. He’s convinced Crawford never worked for the News Courier.”

  G.P.’s face tightened. “Kate, Jack Crawford’s references were, and are, impeccable. I checked them thoroughly myself.”

  My face must have registered doubt, because my uncle spoke again. “Kate, the Soo Morning News has been my entire life since your Aunt Susan died. Do you think I’d hire anyone who wouldn’t be good for the paper?”

  I had to admit he was right.

  Later, Scotty and I were dancing on the upper deck to the band’s final number when I mentioned my thoughts about Crawford.

  “I think you’re letting your imagination get the best of you,” Scotty said. “Crawford seems like a good egg.

  “By the way, how was your expedition to Negaunee?”

  I had wanted to tell Scotty about the trip earlier and hadn’t gotten the chance. He and I had grown close over the past week and I felt comfortable confiding in him.

  “Shirley was working for the FBI,” I said.

  Scotty pulled back and looked me in the eye. “You’re joking,” he said.

  “I found Shirley’s aunt and uncle in Negaunee. They told me all about it.”

  And I proceeded to tell Scotty everything I had learned from the Bergmans.

  “I’m truly shocked,” Scotty said when I’d finished. “As serious as she seemed to be about our relationship, Shirley never breathed a word to me about working for the FBI. What about that diary the Bergmans mentioned? Do you have it?”

  “No,” I said, “and it worries me. The dedication ceremony is just two days away. If there’s going to be an attack, the records Shirley kept might help us avoid it.”

  “You’ve searched Shirley’s house, of course.”

  “Of course. And I’m not the only one.”

  “What do you mean?” Scotty asked.

  I told him that someone had searched Shirley’s home shortly after her death, and that whoever it was, wasn’t after money.

  “Let me know if you find that diary.”

  “I will.”

  “After all, if there is an attack the Caiman is going to be in harm’s way.”

  “If there’s an attack, we’ll all be in harm’s way, Scotty.”

  A bit later Scotty walked me to my car, one of the few remaining in the parking lot. We kissed, very passionately I thought. When we came up for air he asked me to stay with him that night aboard the Caiman.

  “I’ll be tied up from tomorrow morning until after the dedication,” he said. “I won’t see you until then.”

  “I would love to stay, Scotty,” I said, and I really meant it. “But tomorrow’s a full day for me too. I promised to meet Andy Checkle early in the morning. We’re working on a special edition for the dedication Sunday.

  “But hold that thought. We’ll do it when all the hoopla of this weekend is over.”

  Driving home, I felt certain I had made the right decision - about this evening, and about letting Scotty into my life. Memories of Ronny would always be an inseparable part of me. They would never die.

  But I had finally come to grips with the fact that Ronny had.

  86

  Saturday, July 10

  One day before the Dedication

  Dedication Attendees Deserve a Warning

  An editorial by G.P. Brennan

  Publisher, Soo Morning News

  Hundreds of people are expected to attend the dedication ceremony of our new M
acArthur Lock tomorrow afternoon.

  They have a right to know that there have been rumors of an attack on the locks during the ceremony that seem to have come from inside the Nazi Party itself.

  Whether the rumors are correct and an attack is imminent is a matter of conjecture at this point.

  On the plus side is that if the attack should come we’ll be ready for it. Barrage balloons will thwart an air attack and torpedo nets will guard from attacks from underwater. The military is on full-alert and soldiers are manning an arsenal of anti-aircraft weapons.

  On the minus side is that we have no solid information on an attack and where it might come from. U.S. officials have feared the Nazis might bring in planes piece by piece by U-boat and assemble them in the Canadian north woods. Such an operation would have to include a significant airstrip and would be readily visible from the air. So far U.S. and Canadian forces have failed to find any sign of an airstrip or any buildings where planes might be assembled.

  Tomorrow Governor Kelly and Senator Vandenberg will join hundreds of officials, military personnel and private citizens in dedicating the newest Soo lock.

  They know well of the possibilities of a Nazi attack. They will be on hand, and so will I.

  Whether you choose to join us is up to you. But at least you are now aware of the possible danger.

  87

  Pam’s Coffee Shop was so packed with people that Andy and I were forced to squeeze into two stools against the window facing out onto Portage. The locks were just across the way.

  We sat side by side, our coffee cups resting on a shelf that ran the length of the window. Andy was dressed in a well-worn pair of blue jeans; he had instructed me to wear old slacks and bring along a light jacket. With the temperature predicted to approach seventy-five degrees today I wondered why.

  I sipped my coffee, black. I decided against enjoying a cigarette along with it, the place was too crowded and already filled with smoke.

  “I stopped by the office this morning, early,” Andy said. “Wire service says our troops are invading southern Sicily as we speak. Patton and Monty are leading the charge.”

  I nodded. “They’ve been softening up the area with bombing raids for the last couple of days.”

  “G.P.’s editorial ran this morning, warning people about the possibility of a Nazi bombing raid attack during the ceremony. What kind of odds are you giving on an attack?”

  The sixty-four dollar question. “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “But the authorities are sure taking the chances seriously.”

  “My dad calls it hogwash,” Andy said. “My mom’s scared though.” I had forgotten that Andy still lived with his parents.

  Andy paused looking down at his coffee mug, then back up at me. “You really think Shirley Benoit found out something about the raid? And that she was murdered by a German agent?”

  “Why would you ask me that, Andy? I never said anything more about Shirley than that she was my best friend.”

  Andy blushed. “You’re right. But you must have known. I overheard your uncle and Crawford talking about Shirley being with the FBI.”

  “What else did you hear, Andy?”

  “Not much. They shooed me away when they saw me at the door.”

  “I see.” I decided to trust Andy with what I had learned about Shirley’s background from the Bergmans.

  Andy shook his head when I’d finished. “It’s all so surreal,” he said. “I grew up in the Soo. It’s a small town. We’re not used to having FBI agents posing as waitresses, or . . . or gangsters walking the streets. We’re not used to someone being murdered every other day. Who’s behind all this, anyway?”

  This time I shook my head. “I wish I knew.”

  “I couldn’t go to war, but now the war’s coming home to me. The way things are going, nothing would surprise me. What’s next, your uncle being arrested as a Nazi spy?”

  “I think that’s one thing we don’t have to worry about,” I said.

  “I’m not so sure about Crawford, though,” Andy said.

  “Jack Crawford? What do you mean?”

  Andy seemed to struggle with the words. “I don’t think he’s who he says he is, that’s all. I’ve thought from the beginning that he doesn’t know beans about editing a newspaper.”

  Andy’s thoughts echoed my own, but my uncle’s words rang in my head: Do you think I’d hire anyone who wouldn’t be good for the paper?

  “What makes you doubt Crawford’s credentials?” I asked.

  “Just some little things,” Andy said. “Like when Crawford first got here in January, he didn’t know what a paste up room was.”

  “Did you ask him about that?”

  “Sure, but he made up a story. Said they called it the makeup room in Cleveland.”

  “Maybe they did.”

  “Yeah, but there were other things,” Andy said.

  “Why didn’t you say something to someone? Like my uncle?”

  Andy hesitated. “You have to understand. I’ve wanted to be a reporter since I was in high school. Mr. Crawford always encouraged me. I didn’t dare to risk everything by criticizing him. Besides, they were all small things. Taken one at a time, they wouldn’t have proven anything.”

  “I do find his judgment troubling,” I admitted. “The way he refused to let me phone my sources in Detroit to write a firsthand account of the rioting. Said we had enough from the wire services.

  “But while we’re confiding in each other, Andy, I have a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why did you insist that I dress this way, in a pair of slacks I’d almost thrown away? And what’s so special about this coffee shop?”

  He stood up and drained his mug. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

  88

  “Here we are,” Andy said.

  We were standing at the intersection of West Portage and Magazine streets, a short walk from Pam’s Coffee Shop and across the street from the grassy park that separated the street from the locks. A ten-foot high chain-link fence guarded the park and locks beyond it.

  “Here? Why are we here?” We were in the middle of the street. I didn’t get it.

  Andy reached down and, after some grunting and groaning, picked up what looked like a manhole cover. It rolled away with some effort and we both looked down into a dark hole.

  “You know all about gathering background for a news story, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Andy smiled. “We’re going to gather under ground.”

  “What are you talking about?” I glanced around and all I could see was the huge chain-link fence between us and the locks.

  “Don’t worry about the fence,” Andy said. “We’ll be walking underneath the park.”

  “Underneath?”

  “Yeah, we’re going to see the new MacArthur Lock from below.”

  Andy was already climbing down into the hole, going hand over hand on the metal rungs that had been positioned into the concrete wall of the tunnel. I followed closely, glad that Andy had told me to wear slacks.

  I stepped down onto the cement floor in a small pool of light that came from above. It felt cool away from the sunlight and I pulled the light jacket around me. Andy switched his flashlight on and I could see damp cement walls that faded into darkness ahead. As we began to walk into the darkness, our footsteps echoed against the walls. The air was damp and smelled of mildew.

  “How did you find this tunnel?” I asked.

  “One of the soldiers from the Army Corps of Engineers tipped me off,” Andy said. “The tunnels run underneath the locks carrying hydraulic and electrical lines. They’re also used for locks maintenance.”

  As we walked, following the beam from the flashlight Andy held, I felt thankful I didn’t suffer from claustrophobia. I’d be running for the exit if I did. The damp cement walls seemed to close in on either side, although I’m sure it was my imagination playing tricks.

  Andy must have read my mind. “The walls g
et a little narrower here but they’ll widen out as we get near the locks,” he said.

  We were getting close, I reasoned, because the space between the walls now was widening. Suddenly we were inside a dark, cement-walled room. As Andy shined his light against the far wall, I could see huge gears that made the space look like the inside of a giant watch.

  “This is as far as we go,” Andy announced. We stopped and examined the workings of the new MacArthur Lock from thirty feet or so underneath. “On the other side of that wall is the lock,” Andy said. He pointed to the gears. “Those are what cause the gates of the Lock to open and close.”

  Just then a deafening roar sounded, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. The gears began to rotate.

  “Relax,” Andy said. “They’re just testing the gates.”

  “Where does that ladder go?” I asked, pointing to a series of metal rungs climbing up the wall to a trap door similar to the one we had entered.

  “It opens out onto the MacArthur Lock,” Andy said. “I climbed up the other day and surprised the hell out of an Army private who happened to be on guard. I had to talk fast to convince him I was on official newspaper business. I told him I had simply stumbled across the opening to the tunnel out on Portage Street and was just trying to see where it led.”

  “And he believed you?”

  “Well, I’m not in the brig. C’mon, let’s go back and check out the new lock from above.”

  89

  Claus Krueger watched the two reporters emerge from the tunnel from a distance of two hundred meters.

  A safe distance; they would never see him. Now, as they came closer, walking toward the public entrance to the locks, he ducked into Adams’ Hardware.

  He was on Portage Avenue for a last minute examination of the grounds around the locks. He made mental notes of the location of the hundred or so folding chairs set up almost to the edge of the new lock. He made note of where the bulk of the crowd would stand behind them.