by Max McCoy
The man in the black trench coat walked unhurriedly across the platform, Indy's suitcase swinging lazily by his side, a smile tugging at the corners of his cold blue eyes. Beneath his ordinary-looking business suit, on a heavy cord around his neck, swung a perforated zinc disk that identified him as a captain—a Hauptsturmfuhrer—in the Leibstandarte SS, Adolf Hitler's personal guard. The disk carried other encoded information, such as his service number and blood type, but this last was a bit of redundancy; the type—A—was also tattooed beneath his right arm.
The man was six-foot one-inch tall, the minimum height for the Leibstandarte (but two inches greater than that required for the regular SS). His steps had the energy and grace of a natural athlete, and even now, at thirty, he prided himself that not even a filled tooth marred his physical perfection. He did not consider the scar tissue that ran like a lightning bolt down his right cheek as a mark of imperfection; but rather, like the young officers of the Great War and their saber scars, he wore it as a badge of honor. He considered the wound a testament to his patriotic actions in the series of street battles with degenerates that culminated in the Reichstag fire, and the installation of Adolf Hitler as chancellor of Germany.
His name was Rudolf Reingold and six months earlier he had been called away from his most recent assignment, as an adviser for some of the grimmer construction details of a new kind of Konzentrationslager at Dachau. Now Reingold had an even more important task, one that had been conferred upon him one heady Sunday afternoon in the mountains at the Eagle's Nest. The memory of that sunlit moment was with him even on this dreary winter's day in New Jersey.
As the conductor continued his call to board, Reingold walked leisurely into the unoccupied men's room. During his stroll across the platform, three similarly dressed companions had fallen into step beside him, and they now crowded around as he placed the suitcase on the wash counter. While one of the trio stood watch at the door, Reingold thumbed open the latches. He rummaged through the clothes and books without success and finally picked up a bullwhip and regarded it with disdain.
"Curious," he said as he threw the whip back into the suitcase. "These Americans have such a fascination with primitive weapons. Unfortunately, the box we seek is not here. Jones must be carrying it on his person."
"Herr Captain," the man at the door, an SS assassin named Jaekal, said in alarm. "The train is pulling away." His hand was already inside his jacket, his fingers touching the butt of the 9mm Luger Parabellum semiautomatic pistol that nestled in a shoulder holster there. "We hesitated at the opportunity to kill him last night, but we could kill him now."
"Stating the obvious is an unthinking response," Reingold said as he carelessly tossed an undershirt into a wastebasket. "We need something better. Now."
The two other men—whose names were Dortmuller and Liebel—were somewhat younger than the assassin, and they both fell miserably silent at this reprimand.
"Come, come," Reingold taunted. "We have only seconds before the train is out of the station and Jones is beyond our grasp, at least for a time. Can you think of nothing?"
Inspiration caused Dortmuller's face to brighten. He was the youngest of the squad, and as he pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, he resembled a boy anxious to impress his schoolmaster.
"He will be looking for his suitcase, no?" Dortmuller asked in German. "Then you will return it. Explain that you have taken it by mistake. Apologize, offer to buy him a meal. That way, you can get close—"
"Yes, yes!" Reingold said as he hurriedly stuffed the clothes back into the suitcase and latched it. "But this is a one-person assignment. More would arouse suspicion."
"Should we follow?" Jaekal asked.
"Not immediately," Reingold said as he made for the door. "But if you do not receive word from me by the end of the day, then we will rendezvous in Kansas."
"Javolt."
The assassin started to make a Nazi salute.
"Not here, you idiot," Reingold hissed.
With the suitcase in his right hand and his left holding the hat on top of his head, Reingold began to run for the closest passenger car. As he neared the tracks he collided with Marcus Brody, who was stepping idly backward while he watched the train leave the platform.
Brody landed on his rump.
"I beg your pardon," was the strongest thing that he could bring himself to say.
"Sorry old chap," Reingold shouted in a near-flawless English accent, but without stopping. "I was too long in the water closet and I have very nearly missed my train."
He grasped the railing with his left hand and lithely swung up onto the steps of the vestibule. Then he turned back toward Brody and threw him an impromptu salute by touching his forefinger to the brim of his hat.
"I beg your pardon," the pleasant-sounding voice with the English accent inquired, "but is this seat taken?"
Indy stirred beneath the fedora. He had slumped against the window and placed the hat over his eyes the moment the train had left the station, thankful that no one was in the next seat to disturb his slumber. But the question had been asked so politely that he felt compelled to sit up and respond in kind.
"Excuse me," Indy said as he removed his leather coat and satchel from the vacant seat. "Please, sit."
"Thank you," Reingold said as he slid into the seat. He had a black trench coat draped over a suitcase that Indy wished he could get a better look at. "I've had some rather rotten luck so far today."
"Oh?" Indy asked.
"Rather," the tall blond man said. "I seem to have grabbed someone else's suitcase this morning on the platform. I had placed my bag down for a moment in order to turn the pages of my magazine, and I must have taken this one by mistake."
"Could I take a look?" Indy asked.
"Sorry?"
"The suitcase. Do you mind if I take a look?"
"Please do," Reingold said as he removed the trench coat. Indy picked up the case, turned it over on his lap, and smiled.
"It seems my luck is improving," he said. "This case is mine. I lost it on the platform this morning."
"Really? Outstanding!"
"What a coincidence," Indy said appreciatively.
"You didn't happen to pick up my bag, did you?"
"I'm sorry, no," Indy said. "Actually, I saw no other bag."
"Ahem," Reingold said nervously. "I hope you don't mind my saying so, old boy, but perhaps this is too much of a coincidence. There's no name on the outside of the case. I know, because I looked desperately for one. Tell me, how should I know that it's yours?"
Indy smiled.
"I can describe what's inside," he said. "Did you open it?"
"No."
"Well, on top of my clean shirts is a carefully coiled bull-whip, which I imagine you would think is a trifle odd," Indy said. "There are also a half-dozen books on the geology and archaeology of New Mexico. Open it up and have a look."
The man paused.
"I'm sorry," he said, and looked away. "I will not participate in a charade. I did open it, but I was only looking for some identification. I hope you can forgive me."
"Understandable," Indy said, although his voice conveyed the opposite message.
"I can see that we're off to a bad start." The man gathered his coat as he spoke. "It would be best, I think, if I sought a seat elsewhere."
Indy hesitated.
"Wait," he said. "There's no harm done. If you say that you were merely looking for identification in order to return the case, then I can take your word for it. Please, sit down."
"You're certain?" the man asked.
"Of course," Indy said.
"Rudolph Hyde-Smith, formerly of London, currently of Boston," Reingold said, holding out his hand. "You may call me Rudy. All of my friends do. Perhaps I could buy you lunch to make up for the horrible inconvenience my carelessness has caused you."
"That won't be necessary," Indy said as he shook hands. "My name is Jones. Indiana Jones."
"Now, there's a
name!" Reingold exclaimed. "You colorful Americans. Is Indiana your given name or is it simply a nickname?"
"Just something that stuck," Indy said absently. "It was a long time ago. I took the name of—well, somebody I was very close to as a child."
Reingold smiled. He pulled a shining metal cigarette case from his pocket, opened it, and offered it toward Indy.
"I don't smoke," Indy said.
"As you wish." Reingold nodded and took a cigarette from the case, then snapped it shut. The lid was inscribed, but he had returned the case too quickly to his jacket pocket for Indy to read the inscription.
Reingold tapped the end of the cigarette on the crystal of his watch, then with a flourish brought out a windproof lighter. He thumbed a flame. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked flame into the cigarette. He closed the lighter by slapping it against his thigh, then leaned back in the seat and, with a contented look on his face, shoved it back into his trouser pocket.
"Foreign?" Indy asked, his nostrils twitching against the strong, stale smell of the tobacco.
"Not to me," Reingold said. "English."
"Of course," Indy said.
"Does the smoke bother you?" Reingold asked, suddenly concerned. "I will put it out."
"Thanks," Indy said.
Reingold snubbed the cigarette out on the heel of a well-shined shoe then dropped the butt in a nearby ashtray.
Indy turned his face to the snow-covered New Jersey landscape, which was rolling by at a steady pace. He was already regretting his decision to be amiable.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Reingold commented, motioning to the window.
"Um," Indy grunted.
"The vastness of this country never ceases to amaze me," Reingold went on. "It all seems so fresh, so new. An unspoiled paradise. No wonder you Americans have such a sense of freedom and individuality."
"I'm not so sure that's how we all feel right now," Indy said. "The breadlines tend to remind us that we're in the same boat as the rest of the world."
"Quite right," Reingold said. "It is difficult to make a living, is it not? I'm in sales. Hister Industries. We make kitchen appliances. Ovens, mainly. Gas, not wood. If you don't mind my asking, what is it that you do?"
"I'm a college professor," Indy replied.
"Splendid," Reingold said. "What area?"
"I'm with the department of art and archaeology at Princeton."
"That explains those serious-looking books in your suitcase. Your work sounds fascinating. Buried treasure, lost cities, and all that. I'll wager you've had your share of adventure, eh?"
"Actually, it can be rather dull." Indy settled back and clasped his hands over his stomach. "But every so often I am allowed out of the classroom."
Indy was thankful for the silence that followed. He closed his eyes and let the gentle swaying of the car guide him toward sleep. He began to feel warm all over, despite the cold that seeped from the window, and the stress of the night before began to fade away.
Then Reingold asked, "But what about the whip?"
Indy sat up.
"What about it?" he asked testily.
"It seems odd," Reingold said cautiously. He knew he was risking early alienation of his quarry, but he could not resist the fun of testing this overaccommodating American's patience. "I have been sitting here trying to think of what use a professor of archaeology could possibly have with a bullwhip, and my mind has drawn a blank. Surely you wouldn't use it on your students. When I was a lad, the headmaster at my boarding school frequendy used a riding crop, with painful results. But a whip of this size is out of the question. You could bloody well kill somebody."
Indy sighed.
"You have a vivid imagination," he said. "The whip is just another one of my tools, like a pick and shovel. I find it more useful than a simple coil of rope, because it is ready at—well, the drop of a hat."
"And yet, Dr. Jones, the whip is a formidable weapon," Reingold said. "Come now, you are with a friend. Do you mean to tell me that it has never tasted human flesh?"
"Only in self-defense."
"Ah, I knew it."
"Look," Indy said, pushing his hat back on the crown of his head with one hand and shaking the index finger of his other at Reingold. "You are damned curious for a simple kitchen-appliance salesman. If you want to believe that I am some sort of whip-wielding monster, then fine. But just leave me alone. All I want is some shut-eye."
"Dr. Jones," Reingold said apologetically. "I never meant to imply that you were a monster. But you are something more than a simple college professor, no?"
Indy tried to ignore him.
"I crave excitement," Reingold continued. "My life, it is so mundane. There is no passion. And here you are, the brash American with the colorful name and a bullwhip in his luggage. And I can only guess as to what you have in that satchel of yours that is slung beneath your coat. Can you understand my curiosity? Can you forgive a rather envious man a few moments of vicarious pleasure?"
Indy softened.
"Please, Mr. Smith—"
"Hyde-Smith," Reingold corrected. "But call me Rudy. All my friends do."
Before Indy could continue, the conductor appeared in the doorway with a hole punch in his hands. He asked for their tickets.
Reingold handed over the ticket he had expertly lifted from the vest pocket of a businessman he passed in the aisle after boarding the train. The conductor looked at it, then punched a diamond-shaped hole in it, and handed it back.
Indy gave the conductor his ticket. After punching it, the conductor told him that he would be changing trains at the next stop, which was coming up in about an hour. Indy glanced at his watch. He couldn't believe that he and the man he knew as Hyde-Smith had been talking for so long.
"Rudy," Indy said when the conductor was gone. "I am awfully tired and I'm going to nap until it's time for me to change trains."
"Of course," Reingold said.
"Thanks," Indy said.
"Go on to sleep. I'll wake you just before you need to change trains."
Indy eyed him suspiciously.
"You're sure?"
"Certainly," Reingold said. He retrieved a well-thumbed copy of an outdoor magazine that had been shoved between the seats by a previous passenger. "I'll just sit and quietly read. You won't even know I'm here."
The train came to a stop amid the squeal of brakes, the whoosh of steam, and a series of jerks that shook Indy awake. He yawned and looked at his watch, then turned to ask the man he thought was Hyde-Smith why he hadn't nudged him awake before they reached the station.
The seat was empty, except for the copy of Sports Afield. The magazine was open to an article on snaring the arctic fox.
Indy stood. He watched in disbelief as the leather strap that had held the satchel securely to his body snaked to the floor. The ends of the strap had been cut with near-surgical precision, and the satchel, of course, was gone.
Indy pressed his face to the window. Outside, he could see Reingold strolling across the platform, the satchel tucked beneath his arm. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. The ghost of a smile played across his lips and tugged at the corners of his sparkling blue eyes.
Indy dug the whip out of the suitcase, then made a dash out of the compartment and down die aisle to the end of the car. He bounded down the steps to the platform, slid across a patch of ice like a drunken figure skater, then regained his balance and raced after Reingold.
"Slow down!" the conductor yelled from the other end of the car.
The shout alerted Reingold, who turned to see Indy barreling through the crowd toward him. He feinted for the exit, then made a run back for the train and ducked beneath a passenger car. As Indy followed he could hear the conductor yell for them to stop, and the prediction that they were going to be killed—it was a busy yard.
On his hands and knees beneath the tangle of machinery on the underside of the car, the road bit into Indy's palms and dug at his knees. He jumped involuntarily when the train lurched as ano
ther string of cars was added. His head banged against a fitting that he could not identify, except on a hardness scale. The blow put a rather unfashionable dent on one side of his fedora that, he hoped, did not continue into the skull beneath.
When he emerged on the other side of the train, he nearly stepped into the path of a switch engine that was industriously chugging away on the nearest set of tracks. When the engine had passed, Indy spotted Reingold wading through the snow toward a high chain-link fence at the far end of the yard. The closer he got to the fence, the deeper the snow drift became, and the slower and higher his legs were forced to pump.
Then Reingold's fingers hooked the fence and he pulled himself up out of the snow. Quickly, he began to climb, then paused as he balanced astride the top bar to switch the satchel to his right hand. With his left hand;—his gun hand—he drew a 7.65mm Walther, a small but deadly handgun that had been hidden in a jacket pocket.
Indy was still fifteen feet away, but his whip was now uncoiled. As Reingold pointed the Walther at his chest Indy lashed out. The end of the whip bit into Reingold's wrist and snaked around his arm like a living thing. He cried out as he dropped the Walther, which fell into the snowdrift below. Then Indy tugged on the whip, toppling Reingold from his perch.
"I told you it comes in handy," Indy said.
The big blond man disappeared in the drift, then found his footing and shook the whip loose from his bloody forearm. As he dug madly in the waist-deep snow for his gun, Indy lunged forward and grabbed the satchel, which Reingold had dropped in his fall from the fence. Then Reingold's frozen fingers found the butt of the gun, and with both hands, he pulled it up out of the snow and thrust it toward Indy.
Indy froze.
"I wouldn't pull that trigger," he said.
"Shut up," Reingold said. "Hand over the bag."
"Your barrel is packed with snow," Indy said.
Reingold hesitated.
"If you fire," Indy said, "your nasty little pistol is going to blow up in your face. The firing pin will probably bury itself right between those blue eyes."
