Ashes Of America

by Fergus McNeill

  ‘Much obliged,’ he said, inclining his head slightly.

  Frank nodded, slipping the carton back into his jacket.

  Obliged.

  ‘Ever make a promise you weren’t sure you could keep?’ he asked.

  The porter’s face became thoughtful.

  ‘More’n I care to remember,’ he admitted. ‘But I always meant ‘em when I said it.’

  Frank smiled at him ruefully.

  ‘Me too,’ he said, reaching down for his bag. ‘You have yourself a good night now.’

  ‘You too, sir.’

  At the top of the stairs, the main hall of Union Station opened up like a cathedral. People hurried this way and that across the marble floors, a shifting congregation whose voices rose in a constant murmur that echoed around the vast space overhead. Frank glanced up at the mighty clock suspended from an archway high above. It was a little after eight, too late to start poking around asking questions tonight. For now, he just needed a place to stay. Turning towards the exit, he made his way across the familiar old hall.

  How long since he was last up here? It must have been Adam O’Halloran’s wedding, and that was over a year ago. Things were a lot simpler back then… before he got his eye on Beth Barnes and screwed everything up.

  Outside, he hailed a yellow cab and slid into the back seat, keeping his bag beside him.

  The driver was a pair of quick eyes watching him in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Where to, mister?’

  ‘I want a hotel in town,’ Frank said. ‘Nothing fancy, but not a dive, okay?’

  Without pay, he’d run out of money soon enough, so he had to be careful.

  The cabbie’s eyes flicked down as he started the meter, the back of his head nodding easily.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I know some nice clean places.’

  The taxi crept forward, sweeping around from the front of the station and pulling up at an intersection on the main road, then turning onto a broad bridge that crested the railroad tracks. Ahead, through the windshield, a succession of illuminated billboards advertised Braun electric shavers and Löwenbräu beer, while the towering buildings of the city lit up the darkening sky.

  ‘So…’ The cabbie’s eyes were in the mirror again. ‘Where are you in from?’

  ‘Westville, Oklahoma,’ Frank said, lying automatically as he glanced out at the store fronts slipping by. It wasn’t likely that anyone would come asking, but there was no sense leaving a trail; that was a bad habit to get into.

  ‘And what brings you to Kansas City?’

  ‘I’m here to look someone up,’ Frank said, staring out through the glass. ‘A friend of a friend.’

  Another lie. Faye Griffith hadn’t been much of a friend to Pete Barnes. But then again, neither had he.

  ‘Gonna be in town for long?’ the cabbie asked.

  Frank turned and stared at the eyes in the mirror until they blinked and looked away.

  ‘What, are you writing a book?’ he growled. Suddenly, the questions felt annoying, intrusive.

  ‘Hey, just makin’ conversation to pass the time,’ the cabbie said, shrugging.

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t know how long I’ll be here,’ he muttered.

  It all depended on how long it took to hunt the woman down.

  He settled for the Bradbury, an anonymous-looking hotel on West 12th Street. It was the kind of place that people chose when they weren’t trying to impress anyone. Gripping his bag, Frank paid the taxi, then stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, staring up at the fire escape that zig-zagged down the side of the building, his thoughts half a world away.

  Then, with a sigh, he walked up the front steps. A printed sign stuck to the inside of the glass door read Deutsche Gäste willkommen. Germans welcome.

  Inside, the hotel had the faded appearance of somewhere that had once been grand. Carpets were worn thin, elegant chairs showed sagging upholstery, even the desk manager was an elderly man, with light from the smoke-stained chandelier shining off his bald head. Glancing up at Frank through thick spectacles, he looked oddly pale against the wall of dark wooden pigeonholes where dusty keys lay in their shadowed recesses.

  ‘Got any I.D?’ he asked.

  ‘Worried I’m a Russian?’ Frank said with a sarcastic smile.

  He signed in with a false name – Mr Cavanagh – and, while the manager turned his back to find the room key, he skimmed through the register, quickly noting the names of the other guests.

  Patterson, Neumann, Grant, Ogilvy, Linden… yes, Edward Linden…

  He could see himself as a Mr Linden. It was an old trick that Rafe had taught him, borrowing the identity of someone staying at the same place. Once again, his thoughts strayed back to his time in Switzerland.

  ‘Room four-one-three,’ said the elderly man, setting a key with a large brass fob down on the scratched desktop. ‘Enjoy your stay.’

  The corridor was dimly lit and musty. Frank unlocked the door and swung it open, peering at the dark shapes inside. Stepping over the threshold, he started to reach for the light switch, then changed his mind and withdrew his hand, gently nudging the door shut behind him. Illuminated by the amber glow of the hotel sign outside the window, he set the key down on the dresser and dropped his bag on the floor. Making his way around the end of the bed, he went over to the window, gripped the frame and slid it open, letting in the sounds of the city and a swirl of cool night air. He bent forward, closing his eyes, feeling the breeze on his face.

  Faye Griffith.

  She was out there, somewhere, he could sense it.

  And when he found her, she was going to lead him to her friend, the thin man, whether she liked it or not.

  16

  He slept late, but it didn’t matter. There was no schedule to keep, no clock to watch. He was working on his own time now. Getting dressed, he straightened his jacket to cover the holster, then picked up his hat and made for the door. At the foot of the stairs, he glanced over to the desk, nodding at the young man who was now on duty, then strolled across the lobby and out onto the steps. He didn’t want to eat at the hotel, but he’d woken up hungry and he knew he wouldn’t be able to think straight until he had some coffee inside him. Standing there on the sidewalk, he glanced left and right, wondering where he might go. In the end, he decided to head left, past a row of tattered America First posters; it was downhill, at least.

  Yawning, he walked down the shadowed street, gazing up at the bright blue sky between the tall buildings. Ahead of him, the sidewalks seemed busier, and it looked as though there would be more stores, more places to eat. He could hear the voices of hawkers raised above the rumble of traffic, saw a gleaming streetcar cut across the road, knew he was heading the right way.

  Halfway between Kresge’s and Macy’s, he found a narrow-fronted diner that looked busy – always a good sign – and managed to squeeze himself in at the end of the counter. The waitress brought him coffee and he ordered a plate of eggs on toast, then lit a cigarette as he considered his next move. He had to find Faye, but all he had was an address for her brother Stanley and a vague description of her. It wasn’t much to work with – he didn’t even know for sure that she’d go to her brother – but he had to start somewhere. Briefly, he considered calling Adam – maybe his old friend could help out? – but then decided against it.

  Not yet. He needed to see things clearer before he tried calling in any favors.

  He stubbed out his cigarette as the waitress slid a full plate in front of him, and settled down to breakfast. Whatever the day held in store, he’d face it better on a full stomach.

  The cab ride took ten minutes, cutting straight down Main Street, past the station and up the hill by the Liberty Memorial tower. Frank gazed out through the glass at the long, cream-colored streetcars, trundling along between the lanes of traffic in the middle of the road. They were bigger than the ones he’d rode in Bern – longer, with sleeker lines – but there was still something about them that took him back. So many
things seemed to be reminding him of Switzerland lately.

  ‘Coming up on 40th Street.’ The cabbie was looking at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘Any place special you want?’

  Frank shook his head, fumbling in his pocket for some coins.

  ‘Just drop me at the intersection,’ he said. ‘I can walk from there.’

  He paid the cab, then stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking around. This far out, it was all neighborhood places – drugstore, barber shop, church on the corner. He could probably ask around, see if anyone knew Stanley or his sister, but he wanted to find the address first. East 40th sloped away down the hill to his left, so he pulled the brim of his hat down and set off, walking like he belonged there. Soon he could see the apartment building, a broad red-brick block on the left. His eyes flicked along the line of cars dotted down the street, but there was no grey Chrysler; he felt both relief and a twinge of disappointment.

  He went slowly down the hill, taking his time, getting a good look at the building and counting the windows: three stories, but not that big of a place. Probably no more than eighteen apartments, all told, which meant that apartment 16 would be on the top floor.

  The entrance was in the middle of the frontage, with cement steps leading up to a half-glass door and a row of numbered mailboxes.

  He continued on, following the sidewalk as it turned at the end of the block, pausing for a moment to glance up the side of the place, and again when he’d gone far enough to see round the back. It was an old building – no sign of any fire escapes here, but there seemed to be a back door opening onto the small yard where a group of trash cans stood, lost among the yellow weeds.

  Not many ways in for him… but not many ways out for her, if she was here.

  He stood for a moment, his eyes flickering between the third floor windows, searching for movement, then glanced at his watch. 10:20am – folk would be at work, kids would be at school – this was as good a time as any to take a look around. The place seemed quiet enough… and he might just get lucky.

  Turning on his heel, he made his way back around to the front, right hand slipping casually inside his jacket for the reassuring touch of the gun. Walking up the steps, he saw an array of bell-pushes, arranged in three lines of six, names written beside each one. Reaching out a hand, he traced his finger down to number 16, and saw Griffith scrawled on a piece of yellowed paper, ink bleached by the sun.

  This was the place, all right.

  He tried the door, but it was locked. Leaning his weight against it, he felt the solid contact of the metal bolt and knew it wasn’t going to budge easily. Through the half-glass panel, he could see a flight of old wooden stairs and a long, narrow hallway illuminated by a square of light at the far end.

  The back door.

  Turning away, he jogged lightly down the steps, then walked around the side of the building, eyes open, alert. Just because the Chrysler wasn’t here, it didn’t mean the thin man wasn’t. He stayed close to the wall, ducking low as he passed beneath the windows, then rounded the corner onto the small yard at the back. Picking his way between the battered trash cans, he came to the door and peered in through the glass pane.

  The hallway was empty. Good.

  He tried the handle, just in case. Like the front, it was locked, but this door felt more flimsy – older, with a single latch bolt. As a cop, he’d seen just how easily these gave way. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he took out his pocket knife and gouged it hard into the doorframe, working the wood in line with the lock and prying pieces out. After a moment, he grasped the handle with both hands, took a breath, then yanked backwards. The remaining wood around the lock split apart, and the door came open.

  Brushing splinters from the sleeves of his jacket, Frank returned the knife to his pocket, then slipped inside.

  The hallway was silent and smelled of floor soap. Keeping his right hand just inside his jacket, he made his way along to the bottom of the stairs and gazed upwards, listening. There was music coming from somewhere above him – something jazzy – but it was faint. He hesitated for a moment, then gripped the worn wooden banister and started to climb, the dry, old staircase creaking beneath his shoes. Pausing at the second floor, he looked along the corridor and listened again – the music was coming from one of the apartments on this level – then turned away and continued on up. He halted again at the top, reaching inside his jacket to draw out the .45.

  A promise was a promise… and he owed Beth, no matter how things worked out.

  Taking a breath, he started down the corridor, placing each footstep silently, eyes searching out the numbers on the doors.

  …12… 14… 16.

  This was it: a battered old panel door, held together by layers of peeling blue paint. A single lock with worn brass fittings. Leaning in against the frame, he held his breath, listening hard, but there was no sound except the echo of the music from downstairs and the heartbeat in his ears. Satisfied, he exhaled, then tucked the .45 back in its holster and bent down to study the lock. He couldn’t risk forcing this one, but maybe he wouldn’t need to.

  Taking out his pocket knife again, he eased the blade in between the door and the frame until he found the latch bolt. There was a bit of play in the doorknob, and he twisted it back and forth while working the knife in against the bolt, horribly conscious of each scrape and rattle.

  Come on… come on…

  The blade jerked and the door suddenly moved freely under his hand. Frank held it shut while he stowed his knife and drew out his gun. Then, gulping down a breath, he pushed the door wide and took a cautious step forward.

  Inside, the apartment was surprisingly neat. Frank paused, sniffing the air, trying to identify the smell. Shoe polish? There wasn’t a lot of furniture, but everything looked clean and cared-for. He noted the large rug and the comfortable couch; neither looked as though they belonged to the building. Someone had clearly made the best of the place, but he could tell straight away that it was a man’s apartment – there was no woman’s touch in here.

  He pushed the door closed behind him, treading softly on the old floorboards as he moved forward to glance through into the bedroom.

  Nobody home.

  Relaxing slightly, he holstered his .45 then turned and walked over to the large bureau, reaching out and pulling the front down. Letters – all addressed to Stanley Griffith – pay slips from St Luke’s Hospital, pens and pencils, a neat stack of coins, and an envelope stuffed with old baseball cards.

  He bent down, pulling out one of the drawers. This contained some folded linen and a square tin box with a picture of an eagle embossed on the top. He prized the lid off and carefully lifted out a tattered old medical ID, unfolding it and peering at the photograph inside.

  This wasn’t the thin man; a very different face stared up from the tiny black and white picture, stocky and determined-looking, with a solid jawline. According to the card, Stanley had been a frontline Army medic during the war, and that took a special kind of courage. Not the sort of person you could push around.

  Beneath the ID, he found a very old and dented pocket watch, a set of dog tags with the name Lester Griffith, and a woman’s engagement ring that showed many years of wear; family heirlooms, he guessed.

  The bottom of the tin box was full of photographs, different shapes and sizes, some with clean corners where they’d been removed from an album. The first one showed Stanley in uniform, lined up with three other grinning medics… then a faded shot of a young couple marked Mom and Dad, smiling stiffly at the camera… and then – yes, there she was! – there, in a picture of the whole family.

  Mom, Dad, Stanley and Faye – Lake Ozark, August 1947.

  Frank leaned over, peering down at Faye. She was pretty all right, just like everyone said, with wavy brown hair and an innocent smile… but smiles could be deceptive. Scowling, he shuffled through the rest of the photographs until he found one of Faye on her own. Stuffing the picture into his jacket pocket, he replaced the content
s of the tin box and shut it away in the drawer.

  The music from downstairs had stopped. Frank looked towards the door for a moment, listening for footsteps in the hallway, but there was nothing. Eventually, he turned away and moved silently through to the bedroom.

  The suitcase was the first thing he noticed, battered and scuffed, lying on the floor at the side of the bed. As his eye swept around the room, he spotted the lipstick and powder compact on the chest of drawers and, turning around, saw the dress hanging from the back of the door.

  So she’d run to her brother… and he’d taken her in.

  All her stuff was through here. He glanced back towards the couch, noted the neatly-folded quilt, resting on the arm; Stanley must have given up his bed and be sleeping out there.

  Frowning, he made his way back through to the living room and looked around.

  Should he wait for her to come back? Confront her?

  No… the brother might get home first, or they could return together, and that would just complicate things. For now, it didn’t look as though she was going anywhere in a hurry… and why would she? She had no idea that he was onto her.

  Nodding grimly to himself, he walked across the rug, listened briefly at the door, then let himself out. Pulling the door shut behind him, he made his way quickly along the hallway and down the stairs.

  He’d come back later, see if he could catch her on her own. And in the meantime, it wouldn’t do any harm to ask around about her.

  The drugstore on Main was quiet, and the greying little man behind the counter looked up, peering over the top of his spectacles as Frank approached.

  ‘Help you find something, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Someone,’ Frank corrected him. ‘I’m looking for an old acquaintance, name of Faye Griffith.’ He took out the photograph, placed it on the counter, and slid it towards the man. ‘Just wondered if you’d seen her around?’

  Frowning slightly, the old man glanced at the picture, then adjusted his spectacles and leaned over to stare more closely.