Dead Lock

by B. David Warner

  “You were obviously planning to kill me, too. I would have been aboard the Caiman.”

  “No. You would have been detained by the two men who work for me. They had orders to kidnap you and hold you hostage at the building where I stored the explosives. You would have been released shortly after the locks were demolished.”

  “I’ll tell the sheriff and the Army everything I know.”

  “They won’t find me. My return home to Germany is already arranged. I’ll disappear during the chaos that follows the explosion. A submarine is scheduled to pick me up off the Canadian shore in two days.”

  “Why tell me that if you’re going to let me live?”

  “The Canadian shoreline runs for thousands of miles. Without knowing exactly where the rendezvous point is, your ships will never find me.”

  “Why spare me?”

  Scotty walked back to me, stopping just short of my chair. He paused for a moment before he spoke, his face looked strangely sad. “Kate, I’ve done something no soldier should do. I’ve become infatuated with you.

  “What happens today will almost certainly guarantee a German victory. The war will end soon and afterwards I plan to come back to America and find you. Maybe . . . maybe with the situation completely different, we might make a life together.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  He turned and walked out the door, leaving me alone to contemplate the horror that would take place in less than two hours.

  98

  Andy Checkle was aware that the victim of a recent heart attack wouldn’t be allowed visitors and was prepared to flash his press card and claim official business. But the hospital receptionist was on the telephone when he entered the lobby. Ignoring her frantic waves, he ran for the stairwell.

  He took steps two at a time on the way to the third floor. Once there he followed the arrows to the ICU which consisted of two large rooms, one for men, the other for women. Entering the men’s ward, he found a pale, wan-appearing G.P. lying in one of the three beds.

  He approached the bed and placed a tentative hand on G.P.’s exposed thin white arm. The old man’s eyes opened slowly.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” G.P.’s words were strong, his voice weak. “There’s a story to cover.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Brennan. I heard you . . . you were sick. Kate doesn’t know, yet. I wanted to tell her . . . that I saw you.”

  “Where is Kate?”

  “She’s with Scotty Banyon.”

  “At the dedication?” G.P. struggled to sit up, but fell back onto the pillow.

  “That’s not ‘til later, Mr. Brennan. Kate thinks she remembered where her friend Shirley might have left records ... a diary she might have kept during her investigation. Kate says Shirley worked for the FBI.”

  The old man’s eyes shut tight, then opened again. “She did,” he said.

  “You knew?”

  “Yes. She was killed . . .” his voice trailed off. It seemed like he might fall asleep, but his eyes opened again. “Checkle . . . Jack Crawford is going to need your help. Yours and Kate’s.”

  “How so, Mr. Brennan?”

  “I’m going to be here awhile. I can’t even get out of this damn bed without some nurse having a fit.”

  “Yes, sir. You need to rest.”

  “But Crawford needs you. You and Kate. You see . . .” The old man struggled for words. “Crawford isn’t a newspaper editor. He has no experience outside of his college newspaper. I’ve been backing him up, and now I’m . . .”

  “If he’s not an editor, what is he Mr. Brennan?”

  G.P. took a deep breath. “Crawford works for the government.” Noticing Checkle’s startled expression, he decided to begin again. “Ever heard of Darby’s Rangers?”

  “Who hasn’t? They’re commandos.”

  “Crawford was there when the Rangers attacked the Vichy French Fort of Batterie du Nord at Algiers last November. The raid was a resounding success, but Crawford was wounded.”

  “Crawford? A ranger?”

  “One of the very toughest. He recovered from his wounds back in the States. He had worked for the FBI before enlisting in the Army, so the Army reassigned him here in the Soo. Undercover.”

  “That’s why he didn’t seem to know much about editing a newspaper.”

  G.P. nodded. “Now go tell Kate what I told you. She’ll have to act as editor-in-chief today. Crawford’s going to be at the locks this afternoon in case the Nazis attack.”

  Checkle started for the door but turned back. “I’ve got to tell Kate how you’re doing.”

  “Tell her I’m going to live. Now get the hell out of here.”

  99

  Harry Houdini died in Detroit’s Grace Hospital when I was eleven years old. I loved magic, and I remembered reading at the time that Houdini’s great “escapes” were predicated on keeping his hands and arms tensed while the bonds were applied. When he relaxed them afterwards, his bonds were actually loose.

  I had tried the same technique when Scotty – Krueger – had taped my hands and legs to the chair. Now as I relaxed I could feel some “wiggle room” in my bonds.

  Not much. But maybe enough.

  Ten minutes went by. Then half-an-hour. I still struggled with the damn tape. So much for a second career as an escape artist.

  I felt frustrated and angry. Sick to my stomach. Thousands of innocent people were going to die in just over an hour and I was helpless to stop it.

  I was also dying for a cigarette. My purse was on the table next to me, but all I could do was look at the pack of Chesterfields.

  In frustration I pulled frantically at the tape that bound my hands and feet to the wooden chair. As I rocked, the chair wobbled and I heard it creak. This old wooden chair had been at Toad Hall since we met here years ago and it was on its last legs. Literally.

  Encouraged, I rocked from side to side and heard the “creaks” get louder and louder. Each time I rocked left or right, I felt the chair give way a bit more.

  Ten more minutes went by. The tape held strong, but the chair was coming apart. Finally I could pull the right arm away from the rest of the chair and reach over to my left side. Bit by bit I pulled at the tape, unwrapping my left arm. Once it was free, I struggled to pull the tape from my right arm.

  Once both arms were free, I bent down and unwrapped my legs, thankful I had shaved them this morning.

  I stood up and walked weakly back and forth in the room, rubbing my legs until I felt the blood returning.

  I lit a cigarette as I headed for the door. I needed a lift back to town. The 131st Infantry headquarters was nearby, but I knew with all the people pouring into town for the dedication, there’d be plenty of cars to choose from on Ashmun Street. As I approached the street I remembered the famous scene from It Happened One Night. I had seen the movie as a senior in high school and recalled how Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert were forced to hitch a ride. Gable couldn’t get motorists to stop, so Colbert pulled her dress up over her knee, stuck her leg out at the side of the road and cars came screeching to a halt.

  What the hell, it was worth a try.

  Ashmun was as busy as I had expected. The first car was coming away from town not toward it, but I lifted my skirt and stuck my leg out anyway. I felt disappointment when it continued past. But I felt gratified when the driver screeched to a halt down the road and did a U-turn, almost sideswiping another car coming the opposite way.

  That was more like it. I was congratulating myself on my feminine wiles as the car pulled up beside me.

  I returned to earth when I saw Andy Checkle at the wheel.

  100

  As we drove toward town, Andy and I traded bits of information, each filling in our own pieces of the puzzle. A lot of questions were answered as we made our way north on Ashmun.

  I told Andy about Scotty Banyon, aka Claus Krueger, and the part he was playing in an all too real attack on the locks. I told him about the dynamite planted in the tunnel he and I explore
d the day before and on board the Caiman.

  Andy nodded as I told him that Krueger had murdered Shirley when she got too close to the truth. He had guessed as much from what I had already said.

  Then it was Andy’s turn to surprise me. Jack Crawford an Army Ranger? I guess Andy’s suspicions had been right after all. And I would have bet a month’s salary that Crawford’s cover as managing editor of the Soo Morning News had been arranged with my uncle’s help and cooperation. G.P.’s dedication to his country was well known, as he had received awards from local, state and federal governments -- and from even President Roosevelt himself -- for his support of government activities. When he spoke of his “Washington contacts” one could only guess how high up they went.

  Andy wondered why anyone hadn’t caught on to Claus Krueger. I explained how his masquerade as Scotty Banyon had been impeccably planned and executed. Years had passed since the real Scotty Banyon’s family had moved from the western Upper Peninsula to Arizona. As the man who promised newfound wealth in the form of copper mining jobs, no one had questioned his credentials. Krueger had been welcomed into the community with open arms.

  It would be a gross understatement to say that the whole situation had a profound effect on me. The way the man I knew as Scotty Banyon had toyed with my emotions was unforgivable. Maybe I could have found some solace in the fact I wasn’t the only one taken in, but truthfully, it didn’t help much. Did I want to strangle him? At the moment strangulation seemed much too kind a death.

  Traffic on Ashmun became much heavier as we approached the downtown area. We seemed to be crawling at a maddeningly slow pace as automobiles rode bumper to bumper into the small town not used to being the center of attention. I glanced over at the crowded sidewalk and noticed pedestrians were walking faster than we could drive.

  We might have gotten out of the car and walked, but there was absolutely no place to park. Every parking place was taken; every lot was filled with cars.

  We finally reached Arlington Street and turned left, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car. Luckily the Morning News lot was being patrolled by a guard who waved us in when he recognized Andy’s car. We found a space in the far corner of the lot and ran into the building.

  “Mr. Crawford isn’t here,” Carol Olson said in her usual curt manner. “He’s at the dedication of the new MacArthur Lock, of course.”

  Of course.

  101

  Considering the volume of traffic, it was faster to run the three blocks to Waters Avenue and the locks than to drive.

  We arrived at the locks out of breath and sweating. The dedication was already underway. I could see soldiers standing by the half dozen anti-aircraft guns at points around the locks. They were looking skyward, not knowing the real threat came from beneath the ground.

  People were seated in the hundred or so folding chairs. A couple thousand more stood to each side of the chairs and behind them. All were listening to Mayor Swenson who stood on the bow of the Caiman, now floating in the new MacArthur Lock. The Mayor was greeting the crowd and introducing the dignitaries grouped around him on the boat.

  I didn’t know how long we had until the entire scene would be blown into oblivion, but I knew every minute was precious.

  We had to find Crawford. I shouted for Andy to start at one end of the packed visitors’ area, and I’d take the other. As he ran toward the west end of the area, I began to wade into the crowd.

  Army MPs were positioned the length of the lock, to make certain no one could get closer than thirty feet or so from the Caiman. I rushed up to one of them and started to explain the danger. To my immense frustration, he ignored me, keeping his eyes glued on the crowd behind me. When I tried to go around him, he blocked my way, threatening to have me arrested.

  I realized I was getting nowhere. Finding Jack Crawford was next to impossible among so many people.

  I earned plenty of nasty looks as I pushed through the crowd, but this wasn’t a time for genteel politeness. I was here to save lives.

  If I was lucky.

  I finally spotted Crawford talking with an Army colonel near the stern of the Caiman, behind the line of Army MPs. Rushing up as close as I could get, I stood next to an MP and called to him. Crawford excused himself to come over to me.

  “What’s the trouble, Kate?”

  He reacted as I expected as I explained the situation. First with disbelief, then anger.

  “Where is Krueger now?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But he was going to set a charge on the explosives aboard the Caiman. He could still be there.”

  Crawford turned to the MP beside me. “You heard what Miss Brennan said. Help her alert the people on the Caiman and get everyone off that boat.”

  With that he raced toward the MacArthur Lock and the stern of the yacht.

  102

  As Crawford rolled over the transom onto the Caiman’s teak deck, an Army MP approached carrying a rifle. Crawford reached for his wallet, flashed an identification card and the soldier saluted and backed away.

  Crawford pointed to the crowd of dignitaries at the bow of the Caiman. “Get everyone off this boat,” he shouted to the MP. “Now!”

  The soldier, wide-eyed, ran toward the bow.

  Crawford headed for the cabin door leading to the hold. Descending the steps, he found himself in a narrow hallway. Ahead lay the open door of the Caiman’s large master stateroom. Hearing noises coming from inside the room, he walked quietly toward the door. He peered inside and saw the man he now knew as Claus Krueger standing next to the double bed that was covered with crates of explosive charges. Other crates ringed the bed. All were joined together with wires that led to a metal box in Krueger’s hand that Crawford recognized as a timing device.

  “Drop it, Krueger,”

  Krueger set the timing device on the bed and smiled. “Crawford. What brings you here?”

  Crawford held out his wallet with the ID card. “I’m here to see that you don’t carry out your mission.”

  “So you’re not who you appear to be either. What a coincidence. I should have known by the way you examined the corpse of the man I killed the other evening. Almost medical in your precision.”

  “You watched me?”

  “From a few feet away. I could have broken your neck as easily as I broke his.”

  “You’re under arrest Krueger.”

  “Come arrest me, Jack.”

  Cautiously, Crawford reached out for Krueger’s shoulder to turn him around and place him in a hammerlock. Instead, Krueger grabbed Crawford’s hand, threw a hip into his body and tossed him over his shoulder like a duffel bag. Crawford landed hard on the bedroom floor.

  He sprang up and rushed at Krueger, who sidestepped and deftly drove an elbow into Crawford’s ribs, momentarily knocking the air from his lungs.

  Krueger had been well trained in the Asian art of jujitsu. Crawford had become proficient enough in jujitsu during his training as an Army Ranger, but preferred the more traditional boxing that he had practiced as a youth in the gyms of Chicago. His string of victories had culminated in the 1939 all-Army heavyweight championship.

  “Come on, Crawford, what are you waiting for?”

  Crawford glanced from Krueger to the timing device attached to the explosive charges. Nearly a minute had elapsed since he had interrupted the German. Up above and ashore, thousands of lives were at stake.

  Krueger noticed his gaze. “You haven’t much time, Crawford. The device is set for fifteen minutes, and sixty seconds have already gone by. We can play this game for the next fourteen minutes. I’m not afraid to die for my country. Are you willing to die for yours?”

  Crawford circled the crouching German, praying for a clear shot with his right hand; just one, at the man’s jaw. In years past he had brought down many an opponent with a single right-handed blow. He would do it again.

  If he got the chance.

  He feinted with the right hand and, as Krueger began to react, rocked
him back with a left jab that glanced off the cheek.

  Krueger shook his head violently and returned to his original crouch. “Time is growing short Crawford,” he said. “You’ve got to come to me.”

  Crawford closed in, throwing a right hand that Krueger dodged and then grabbed hold of. Grasping the hand, Krueger again threw the man over his shoulder and to the floor. This time he held onto the hand tightly, then whirled until his right foot was immediately above the American’s face. Crawford turned his face just in time to partially deflect the downward thrust of the foot, but the side of his head screamed with pain.

  Yanking his hand from Krueger’s grasp, he rolled to his right and found room to stand. Krueger, still upright, affected the classic jujitsu fighting position.

  Krueger was quicker than anyone Crawford had boxed, even during the all-Army championships. But Crawford knew he was faster than anyone Krueger had ever fought.

  Just one solid blow with his right hand.

  Moving in closer, he feinted with a left, then with a right. Krueger went for the second feint, grasping air just in time to catch a wicked left hook to the jaw that staggered him back.

  Shaking his head, he looked to his left, at the timing device. “Twelve minutes, seven seconds,” he said. “Come get me Crawford.”

  Both men circled, Krueger crouched in the stance of the Asian martial art. Crawford feinted with a right then followed with a feint of his left hand that Krueger fell for, exposing the left side of his face.

  It was the opening Crawford had been praying for. With the strength and speed of a steel trap, he sent Krueger to the floor for good with a solid right hook to the jaw.

  It was the American way.

  103

  I was at the bow of the Caiman ushering the last of the VIPs down the gangplank when Crawford sprang up on deck shouting to open the lock gate.