After finding a London cab, Neil instructed the cabbie to take him to a department store that sold shoes. As the cabbie wended his way through the back streets, a thought came to Neil.
“How long would it take to get to the port where the ocean liners dock?”
The driver cocked his head, eyeing Neil in the mirror. “Port o’ Tilbury?”
“Where the large cruise lines dock.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Prob’ly half-hour this time’a day.”
Neil displayed a handful of still-damp pound notes he’d exchanged on the ship. “Take me there, please, but don’t go all the way in. Park outside.”
“S’your quid, mate.”
The taxi driver picked his way through the streets north of the Thames. Neil’s first impression of London was positive. The famous images he’d seen so many times in newsreels and magazines were there, right out in the open. It seemed to be a populous city, with streets and sidewalks teeming with people, cars, and even horses. The cabbie knew what he was doing, and inside of ten minutes they were racing eastward, outside of the city rush. Ahead, Neil could see the cranes and massive ships signifying the port.
As they approached, Neil reminded the cabbie to stop short of the port. After a final turn, they noticed the long line of cars.
“Are these people here to pick up passengers?”
“Yeah. Place gets rammed when a ship’s in.”
Neil gripped the door handle as the cabbie eased his way through the mass of cars. “Stop here. I won’t be long.” He began walking before coming back to the cab and leaning in the open passenger window. “May I borrow your hat?”
“You want me hat?” the cabbie asked, cocking his head.
“I’m trying to surprise someone.” Neil reached in his pocket and flipped a pound coin to the cabbie. “An advance on your tip.” The cabbie produced an oil-stained tweed newsboy cap. It was too small and clashed with his clothes, but Neil managed to cinch it down over most of his hair. “How do I look?”
“A mite ropey with that getup, but it’ll do,” the cabbie said, displaying a row of scattered brown upper teeth.
Once he was out of sight of the cab, Neil tried to light a cigarette with his dried-out lighter, realizing he needed to refill it with Naptha. He cadged a light from a passerby. Then, holding his hand with the cigarette over his mouth for further concealment, Neil tucked into the crowd at the gate. He eased his way forward, getting a good view of the ship he’d just called home for over a week. Passengers were disembarking, but only in ones and twos, wearing disgusted looks on their faces. No less than ten reporters stood at the exit, their cameras flashing as they engaged the angered passengers, trying to find out who the authorities were looking for.
“I’ve missed a half-day of my holiday,” protested one well-fed older lady in her New England accent. She spoke slowly for the assembled reporters. “They wouldn’t make special exceptions for anyone, herding us all into the ballroom while only two extremely rude men cleared people to leave. I’ll be speaking to my congressman about this,” she told them haughtily, as if her testimony would make the front page of tomorrow’s Mirror. “We won the war with England, you know. We shouldn’t be treated this way.” She began to walk away.
“Hey lady! We were told that all the men on the ship questioning the passengers are American,” one of the British reporters remarked.
The large woman stopped, her jewels clicking. “Well…yes, I suppose they were. Still…it shouldn’t happen here. Because…well…” She appeared at a loss for words, finally deciding to shuffle to her waiting car and no doubt a large lunch somewhere in the city.
Neil knew exactly what was going on and who they were looking for. He focused on the RMS Queen Mary, watching the empty decks, scanning slowly from the top deck. He moved his eyes fore to aft, slowly making his way down.
There!
From the Verandah Grill, where Gregor Faust had told him about the incident that had spawned this manhunt, a man emerged. He removed his fedora, running his hands back through his hair as if he were exhausted. After lighting a cigarette, he yelled over the railing at a grouping of men at the gangway. The men yelled back, giving the thumbs-up signal. Neil focused on them, some of them in uniform—the London police.
So the Americans had called in favors, and were now tearing apart the Queen Mary—pissing off every passenger in the process—performing a systematic search for Neil Michael Reuter, aka Freeman Jennings. Neil thought about the nearly ruined Freeman Jennings passport in his pocket, deciding that it was now definitely useless. Staying in London for any amount of time would be tantamount to a suicide mission. He excused himself, pushing through the crowd until he reached a reporter’s side.
“Hey pal, I’m waiting on my brother,” Neil asked, scratching his upper lip to conceal the lower half of his face. “Any idea how many of the passengers have made it off yet?”
The reporter was busy snapping pictures, never even turning his eyes to Neil. “Less than half. They’ll be here all day if’n they keep this pace up.”
Neil thanked him before heading back to the cab.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked.
“I may need you for a while this afternoon.” Neil handed the cap over and instructed the cabbie to take him to a fine jeweler. After that he would go to a department store to acquire new luggage and proper clothing, including new shoes of the correct size. Damn if Neil’s feet didn’t ache. He leaned back into the seat and pressed on his closed eyes. Now that he was a federal fugitive, mass transport was absolutely out of the question. The authorities probably thought he was still on the ship, so it could be some time before the net was fully spread over the city.
“Does London have a newsstand that would have American newspapers?”
“Just ahead.”
Neil asked him to stop. The only paper from San Francisco was the previous Sunday paper, August 7th. Back in the cab, Neil told his driver to head to the jeweler as he delved into the paper, his heart sinking as he saw the small piece on the bottom of the fourth page:
POLICE REMAIN STUMPED OVER LEX CURRAN MURDER
The sub-headline ruled out the possibility of suicide. So, it was true. Neil crumpled the paper, placing it below his feet. He had no desire to read on. Feeling nauseous, he decided to focus on the tasks at hand—first of which involved not getting caught. If Neil’s description wasn’t already out to the London authorities, it would be in short order.
The money in his pocket wasn’t enough. He needed to exchange a diamond to secure enough sterling to buy a change of clothes and find someone to transport him to mainland Europe. He considered hiring a fast boat, but the shore was an easy area to patrol and would probably be closely watched by the military due to Germany’s increasing belligerence.
Neil thought about the growing number of Jews, and even German citizens, especially those with something to fear, who were now fleeing Nazi Germany in their search for a better life. Someone here in London had to be profiting from that burgeoning need. Had to. But who? Other Jews? Possibly.
But who could move in and out of Germany with relative ease? Who would have access? An idea coming to him, Neil leaned forward.
“Is there a German neighborhood around London?”
“Yeah, a couple.”
“Which one’s the biggest?”
“Shoreditch.”
Neil leaned back, scratching his stubble. “Yeah, Shoreditch. That’ll be our last stop.”
Though he didn’t feel like sleeping, he knew he needed rest. Surprisingly, he fell asleep seconds after closing his eyes, getting a nice catnap as the driver made his way westward on Victoria Embankment, following the Thames back into the city.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Preston Lord rapped on the arlington apartment door. He waited. It was still quite early in the morning, the shadows in the stairwell heavy due to the low sun that hadn’t yet ascended above the adjacent buildings. He knocked again. After a moment, he heard the soft thuddi
ng of approaching feet. Lord guessed she’d only been asleep a few hours—who knew what the little minx had done last night? He took a step backward, opening his arms as he heard the chains and locks clicking. The door opened.
“Well, did I make your day?” he asked.
The woman was expressionless. She wore a long silver gown, revealing bare feet with painted red toenails. Her short blonde hair was matted on one side, matching the red sleep lines on her face. Though she wore no makeup, this woman in her mid-twenties, with her full lips, small nose and large green eyes, was strikingly attractive.
“Well, did I?”
“You should’ve called,” she mumbled.
“I know he’s out of town, Shirley. In fact, he’s out of town being a bad little lawyer. I’d wager he had two or three Cuban putas last night.”
“He doesn’t run around,” she replied with her eyes closed.
“Yeah, okay…neither do you, right? Besides, do you know how wicked a city Miami is?”
Shirley’s head made a bumping sound as it thudded against the door.
“Are you gonna let me in, or what?”
Fifteen minutes later, the twosome stood under a cool shower, their tongues entwined. Minutes before, all Lord had done to wake her up was give her the pharmacist’s bottle of the peculiar white powder known as cocaine. In fact, it was cocaine that first brought Lord in contact with this beautiful young creature. Apparently, she’d developed an affinity for it when she and her husband had lived in Memphis. Lord had met her one night in a Georgetown tavern. After an hour of cajoling the married beauty, he’d discovered her weakness was the organic powder he could so easily obtain from one of his sources. Lord had known from the second he spotted her across the bar that she was naughty—a naughty young lady with secrets. Now, all he had to do was tease her with a taste of the miracle powder and she’d do anything he wanted.
The wife of a young associate at a good D.C. law firm, she often complained that her husband gave her no money to spend, hence Lord’s mental hold over her. Lord had the cash; Lord had the cocaine; she had the goods. And, oh, how sweet her goods were.
After she’d snorted a bit of cocaine into both nostrils, he’d made her brush her teeth and that’s when they’d gotten in the shower. She’d just greedily knelt before him when he cocked his head at a sound.
“You hear that?” he asked.
She pulled her head back. “What?” she asked, rubbing her hand under her nose and sniffling the way she always did for a number of minutes after inhaling the cocaine.
Lord yanked open the shower curtain. “The phone! Answer it!”
“What if it’s George?”
“To hell with George!” he yelled. “He doesn’t know I’m here. It might be my guys.”
“You told someone you were coming here?” she asked, water striking her in her wide green eyes.
“Just go answer the damn phone.”
Lord let the water cascade over himself as he waited.
“It’s for you,” he heard her say.
Without using a towel, he walked into the entryway of the apartment, dripping water on the carpet runner. “Yeah?”
“This is Greenwood, sir.”
“Who?”
“Greenwood, from London…they patched me through.”
“I’m busy, Greenwood. Get on with it.”
“He wasn’t on the boat. We tore it apart and checked every soul as they debarked.”
“How is that even possible?” Lord roared.
“We think he may have gotten wind and jumped.”
“Jumped?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you considered the fact that he could be hiding? That ship’s huge.”
“We have people camped out in and around the boat. He can’t hide forever. But we’re pretty sure he bailed overboard. There was a small fire about an hour before they put in,” Greenwood said. “A ship hand gave us a description of the man who reported the fire—according to the manifest his name is Freeman Jennings—and he wasn’t among the passengers who debarked.”
“Was he the only person on the manifest who was missing?”
“Yes, sir. Other than an old lady who died during the voyage. But she’s in the ship’s icebox…I saw her myself.”
“Cute,” Lord said. “What are you doing now?”
“As you told us to do, we’re using our influence and putting out the word in London and every town the ship passed on its way in. We’ve spread his picture, his real name, the works.”
“Whatever actions you’ve taken, double them. I want every damned Brit to know what he looks like, do you understand me? And tell those limey bastards to shoot to kill.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As I said, I’m incredibly busy. Don’t call me back unless you’ve got that Indian’s scalp in your hands.” Lord jammed the earpiece into the handset so hard that it broke the cradle.
“Hey, you busted it,” Shirley protested.
“Buy another one.” Lord eyed Shirley the way he might eye a rare cut of meat. She was feet away, a towel covering all but a portion of her right breast. Lord congratulated himself for having the prescience to come here this morning. Now, his frustration with Reuter’s aggravating disappearance could only be worked off.
Properly.
Lord removed her towel and lowered her to the sofa.
~~~
London pulsated with nervous energy. The talk of impending war was everywhere. On street corners, skinny young boys hawked afternoon newspapers in shrill, glass-cutting voices; and next to them, working completely independently, civil volunteers tried to yell over the paperboys, enlisting the citizenry to prepare for the Hun they felt was bound to storm ashore at any minute. It must have been going on that way for months because the Londoners kept their eyes straight ahead, ignoring the criers like they might any common nuisance of living in a big city. It was as if they weren’t even there.
Neil had expected a New York feel in London, with glitz and glam, posh restaurants and exclusive shows—but that wasn’t what he observed. Not at all. Perhaps it was the growing fear of the Nazis. Or maybe it was just their Victorian-influenced culture. London was indeed large and lively, but a bit more spread out, and certainly quite old. And while many of its citizens wore the pinched faces of those expecting impending doom, the city seemed to possess a charm and hospitality all its own.
The Londoners dressed similar to Americans, with some noticeable differences. The men seemed to prefer a more formal look, going with three-button suits or vests in heavier, woven wools. Fedoras were common, but many men chose to go with the larger homburg, possibly in deference to their prime minister, Neville Chamberlain—Neil had never seen him without one. Women’s dresses were a bit more concealing than what Neil was used to in San Francisco. All in all, Neil found the people to be rather polite for such a large city.
Deciding to stop and observe for a moment, he leaned against a stone wall at the corner of Park Lane and Stanhope Gate, just on the eastern edge of Hyde Park. He lit a cigarette. From his pocket he removed the seawater-stained picture of Gregor Faust’s granddaughter, Fern, certainly taken in happier times. Neil shut his eyes for a moment, imagining how she might look right now, living as a persecuted captive. In the picture, she was thin, but appeared healthy and bright-eyed. Neil tried to picture her after weeks of running following her parents’ death—her eyes would bulge slightly from their dark sockets, and her shoulder blades would be visible, like coat hangers under a filmy dress. But the grief of losing her loved ones would have been the worst part for Fern—Neil knew all about it.
He was tricking himself into getting angry, but sometimes he needed to do this for extra incentive. Jakey was his primary motivation, but the end result would hopefully assist people like Fern. People who were persecuted unjustly—namely, the Jews. Neil remembered when, as a boy, he was invited to the Hermans’ home for one of the traditional Passover meals of delicious Matzo balls and accompanying latkes. He
recalled how the modest Herman family had devoutly prayed throughout the day and night during that time of year. Neil went home, finding his father resting in his worn tweed chair, wearing only his stained undershirt and tattered trousers, the requisite bottle of beer in his hand. He told Neil, with a measure of restrained disdain, that the Hermans were Jews, and they didn’t believe in the same God the Reuters believed in. That their people had shunned Jesus—killed him. But, as far as Neil could ever recall, he never remembered his father worshiping any God. It wasn’t until Neil met Emilee, a Methodist, that he had any true exposure to Christianity. His father had seemed more irritated over the difference of the Hermans’ religion, and not his faith in his own beliefs.
But it didn’t matter what faith Jakey Herman was; Neil would have gone anywhere for him, no strings attached. Jakey had saved Neil’s life and, other than Emilee, was his only true friend. They’d always joked about their heritage: Neil’s Shoshone blood and Jakey’s Jewish ancestry. “We’re brothers from two tribes,” Jakey used to say.
Neil touched his breast pocket, the one with the torn telegram announcing Lex Curran’s murder. Also in the pocket was the note from Jakey. He’d asked Neil to do all this, and Neil intended to follow through.
Suddenly, it hit Neil. “I’m in London,” he whispered. “I sold everything, evaded capture and I don’t have too far to travel.” He’d been so busy and preoccupied that he’d failed to congratulate himself for making it this far. In terms of distance from San Francisco to Austria, London was ninety percent to his goal—the longest section was well behind him. But Neil had no illusions about this last ten percent. There would be no freedoms once he reached Hitler’s Reich.
The sudden appearance of a police car, a Humber Snipe, brought Neil out of his reflection. The police car screeched to a stop across Park Lane. A bobby, who moments before had been patrolling the block on foot, walked to the passenger door of the Humber and leaned in. Neil had already passed by him twice as he visited the jeweler and the department store, both times earning a quick glance and a grunt. He’d not been concerned about his image being circulated since the Americans were probably still searching the Queen Mary.
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