“Quite,” Waterman replied. “Harmony Hampton is unquestionably a Jewess. You Germans are such novices when it comes to the science of eugenics. All the important and serious work is being done in America. You have so much to learn from us. We have been sterilizing criminals and mental defectives in the United States since 1907, nearly twenty-five years now. By my count, 49,653 of them. Germany has yet to forcibly sterilize a single person.”
“With your help, Herr Waterman, that will change in Germany once we come to power,”
“Perhaps,” Waterman said, “perhaps not. You Germans may not be as ruthless or efficient at weeding out the weak as we are. I hope you prove me wrong.”
Hoch lowered his voice, feigning servility. “I hope so also, Herr Waterman.”
“Tell me the next steps,” Waterman ordered.
“I‘ve sent two of my best men to England. They will escort Sir Archibald back to Germany. Then, we will gather the Knights together and, after a brief ceremony, Sir Archibald will pay the ultimate penalty for betraying his word to a Knight of the SS.”
Waterman‘s voice boomed. “Good. Keep me informed. If you can do this for me, there may be hope for Germany after all.”
12.
Protection Money
New York City
Tuesday, 26 May 1931
GOOD Morning, Mr. Cockran!”
Cockran was met by the warm greeting and a hint of surprise in the receptionist‘s voice as he stepped off the elevator on the 59th floor of the Chrysler Building and into the wood-paneled lobby of Donovan & Raichle. When you worked part-time, people always seemed surprised to see you. Cockran returned the greeting and headed down the hall towards his office.
He especially liked the building. When Donovan offered him a position as “Of Counsel” to the firm––able to accept, reject, even propose any cases he liked––he‘d used the location to help sell it. “I‘ve got a lease on office space in that new tower Van Alen and Chrysler are building,” he‘d said. “They say it‘ll be the tallest in the world.” But a rival architect was trying to beat Van Alen downtown at 40 Wall Street. The competition had been exciting––each architect changing plans in mid-construction in a bid to top the other by inches. It finally ended when Van Alen secretly constructed a 150 foot steel needle to place atop the Chrysler Building at the last moment. So, before construction of John Raskob‘s Empire State Building was completed in early 1931, Donovan had been right. They did work in the world‘s tallest building.
Cockran reached his desk and found a thick folder waiting for him. He rounded the desk and saw the name of one of the largest New York law firms on the side and the title “National Business Machines–– Manufacturing Plants/Germany”. Then he noticed the sheet of paper lying on top. It was the decision in Dill v. State of New York. He picked it up. A per curiam decision. No written opinion. The bastards didn‘t have the guts to tell her why she was being sterilized.
Cockran sat down heavily in his chair and stared at the decision. His bad mood from his fight with Mattie had just gotten worse. He noticed it was a 2-1 vote. The younger judge had dissented, though he didn‘t write an opinion either. Coward, he thought. Cockran balled his hand into a fist until the knuckles turned white. He wanted to hit something. No, he reconsidered, he wanted to hit someone, preferably one of those judges. What bothered Cockran the most was that he was powerless to do more. It was the role of a judiciary to stop the state from abusing its power. When it opted not to exercise that role, there was nothing a lawyer could do. That‘s the way a constitutional democracy was supposed to work. Judges could err, and there was nothing you could do about it. But it was just so wrong, so goddamned wrong.
“Bourke?”
Cockran blinked and looked up at Bill Donovan. He hadn‘t realized how long he had been staring at the decision. “Hi, Bill.”
Donovan stood before Cockran‘s desk, watching him. “I‘m sorry,” he said.
Cockran nodded, then reached for the decision to put it aside. It was something they were both getting used to. Since joining Donovan‘s New York firm, Cockran had defended three young women faced with compulsory sterilization and now he‘d lost all three cases.
“Have a chance to look at the folder from Churchill?” Donovan asked.
“No,” Cockran said. “I just got in.”
“It‘s about time. Office hours start at nine.” Donovan said. “We‘re lawyers, not bankers.”
“You knew I had to see Mattie off on the Graf Zeppelin.” Cockran said, briefly annoyed even though he knew Donovan was only trying to take his mind off Judy Dill.
“I know but in the meantime, half the world‘s moved on without you.” Donovan took the file off Cockran‘s desk and dumped himself in the chair opposite as he unfastened the strap and lifted the flap on the file folder. He glanced at a few smaller files, then seized upon one. “Here,” he said, tossing the file onto Cockran‘s desk. “This is the skinny on Sir Archibald Hampton.”
“This him?” Cockran asked, lifting from the file a portrait photo of a handsome man with silver hair, a strong jaw and a trim mustache.
Donovan nodded. “He‘s Chairman of the Board and owns a controlling interest in National Business Machines inherited from his American wife. NBM has two plants in Germany. Both are in Munich.”
“Business machines?”
“Computing machines. Tabulating. Recording. It‘s a big industry and growing. Businesses need to keep track of everything. Governments too. NBM is a big player. Not as big as I.C.E. or NCR but big enough.”
“So, NBM was doing well?”
“Was being the operative word, yes. Their German plants have taken considerable lumps as of late. Emphasis on the lumps, but I‘ll get to that.” Donovan guided Cockran through the folder, explaining that the company was selling a new technology. “Only I.C.E. has anything to compare. Most companies were afraid to invest the kind of money it takes to change an operation. NBM‘s main clientele were businesses big enough to invest in the equipment, especially new businesses––the kind of companies that had prospered all over Germany with the flood of American investment money after the German economy stabilized in 1925.”
“And that dried up after the crash,” Cockran said.
“Exactly. After ‘29, investment money from America slowed to a trickle––and competition in that shrinking market has been brutal.”
“I take it this is where the ‘trouble‘ comes in.”
“You‘re smarter than you look, Kid,” Donovan said. Cockran grinned, his mood improving. They had met when Cockran was twenty. To Donovan, he would always be a kid.
Donovan flipped through the folder again. “Trouble started small at first––broken treads on the assembly line. Nuts and bolts suddenly go missing, that sort of thing. Takes you just as long to find the problem as it does to fix it. Then the saboteurs upped the ante––began threatening workers and their families. The main Munich plant has had to replace three different foremen in the last three months.”
Donovan found another photo and held it up for Cockran to see. The man in the photo had an eye swollen shut and five stitches on a busted cheekbone. “This guy was the factory‘s night shift foreman since the plant opened in ‘25. He quit the next day.”
Donovan put the picture away. “His replacement lasted two weeks. Had his skull cracked, knocked him into a coma for the next week and a half. And that‘s nothing compared to what they did to their last night shift foreman.”
“What‘d they do to him?”
“Ran his hand through some machinery, crushed most of the bones in his right hand.”
“And what about the authorities?” Cockran asked. “Have they been any help?”
Donovan laughed. “I‘m afraid they have other priorities.”
Cockran frowned. “I don‘t understand. Why wouldn‘t they be concerned?”
Donovan tossed another file onto his desk. “Take a peek at this one.”
Cockran glanced at the label. “Politics?�
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“Right.” Donovan said. “Political violence in Germany is rampant. Most all political parties have their own shock troops, especially Communists and National Socialists. You‘ve heard Hitler‘s National Socialists became the second largest party in Germany last fall?”
“Nazis?” Cockran said. “Mattie covered them in the early 20s. Interviewed their leader Hitler before his failed Munich coup. A Reichswehr veteran. Enlisted man. Supposedly a great speaker. She‘s interviewing him again next week. She doesn‘t like Nazis but she rarely talks about what happened in Munich. Even last summer when they scored a huge upset and became Germany‘s second largest party, she seemed uncomfortable talking about them.”
“There‘s good reason not to like them,” Donovan said. “Nazis promise something for everybody and pander to anti-Semites by blaming the rest on Jews. That‘s not unusual in Europe, France especially. But the Nazis also have the most highly organized paramilitary forces in the country.” Donovan explained, “They regularly use it against Jews and communists but they target businessmen as well. It‘s like the rackets here. Protection money. Pay or your business gets hurt. Owney Madden, Dutch Schultz and Al Capone would be right at home. It‘s how the Nazis make a lot of their money. NBM‘s German lawyers say the SS is behind it.”
“The SS?” Cockran said.
“Hitler‘s Praetorian guard,” Donovan said. He rifled through the folder one more time, talking as he went. “Just last month, the SS pulled off a vicious little operation, even for them. Instead of hitting the Brit‘s factories or his workers, they went straight for the boss.”
“Sir Archibald?”
“His stepdaughter, Harmony. The Nazis kidnapped her.” Donovan found what he was looking for and held out another portrait photo. Cockran took it and saw a beautiful young woman, with shoulder length blonde hair, a pert nose and big, round blue eyes.
“Pretty and smart to boot.” Donovan said. “Studied at Somerville College in Oxford. She‘s an instructor there now in art history. She‘s also a painter herself. Not bad, either, from the looks of it. She‘s had several local exhibitions and even one in London. A sculptor as well. No exhibits as yet but her nudes are said to be, ah, exceptionally realistic. She went to Berlin to visit her father on the 1:37 train. Never made it off the train. The Nazis snatched her and no one saw anything. Sir Archibald had to cough up plenty to get her back.”
Cockran‘s eyes lingered on the photo as he placed it on his desk. “She‘s safe now?”
Donovan nodded. “Yes. Apparently unharmed. Look, I hope you take the case,” he said. “Germans don‘t give a damn about Brits, but they do care about Americans especially if they‘re throwing around the weight of our government. I‘ll contact the State Department and set up a visit with the American Ambassador and our Consul General in Munich.”
As Donovan talked, Cockran‘s eyes lingered again on the photo of Harmony Hampton, his thoughts drifting to his wife Nora and Ireland in 1922. Violence can come for anyone at any time. Nora had been defenseless when it came for her and he had not been there to keep her safe . Looking at the photo, he felt an urge to keep Harmony safe in a way he hadn‘t been able to keep other women in his life safe from harm. Maybe he could help the girl‘s father. Lord knew he hadn‘t helped Nora or Judy Dill. Besides, this was Winston asking.
“Well, Bourke?” Donovan asked. “What do you think?”
Cockran looked up. “I‘ll review the file and let you know. I‘m inclined to take it.”
“Good lad,” Donovan said. “Our usual arrangement on the fee?”
Cockran nodded his agreement.
IT had been dark for several hours by the time Cockran decided to call it a night. He‘d spent the entire day poring over the documents in the folder. He placed a note to Donovan on the folder telling him he‘d be back in the morning but that he was still inclined to take the case.
His steps echoed throughout the lobby of the Chrysler building as he glanced up at the murals of automobiles and factory workers that covered every inch of the high, vaulted ceilings. The street outside appeared almost deserted. Unusual for 42nd Street. He nodded goodnight to the security guard as he put on his brown fedora, making his way through the large doors of steel and glass. Once outside, he saw a few automobiles, but no taxis. He had given his chauffeur Jimmy the night off. He crossed the street and turned west towards Grand Central, hoping for a taxi on Park Avenue. As he walked, he angled his head up to look at the glistening spire of the Chrysler building, something he always did on the way home from his office. It looked like a sparkling flute of champagne in the sky. Who gives a damn if the Empire State Building‘s taller, Cockran thought. It wasn‘t beautiful. His building was.
The sky was clear which meant good flying weather tomorrow. He‘d promised Paddy a ride after school the next day in his new PCA 2 Pitcairn-Cierva autogiro which he had purchased the previous fall, ostensibly to fly him to weekend sports car races. In truth, he just loved to fly almost as much as racing his Auburn boat-tailed speedster. The PCA 2‘s passenger compartment held two and Patrick was bringing his best friend Michael Darrow and they were the envy of their classmates as a consequence.
Suddenly, he sensed movement in his periphery, off to the left. He brought his eyes down––just in time to see a short, stocky man with a soft cap pulled low over his forehead rushing toward him. Cockran turned to face him––but another pair of hands grabbed him instead from his right side. He felt the pressure of a pistol against his ribs, while the stocky man quickly added a second pistol to his left rib cage.
“Trouble finding a taxi?” the stocky man asked, his Irish accent clear.
Cockran‘s face flushed at his inattention as he sized up the situation. He could see now that they were young, barely in their twenties. When they began pushing Cockran towards a long black Oldsmobile, he kept his temper in check and rejected making a move now. That could wait. It was something other than a mugging and Cockran wanted to know who had sent them and why. He took additional comfort in the fact he had his .45 caliber service automatic in a shoulder holster, something he had done regularly once unemployment soared in the wake of the crash in ‘29. Hard times make for hard people but only fools walked the streets unarmed at night.
Cockran told himself to remain calm as they pushed him into the motorcar. He had to be patient but he knew his temper could change that balance like the flash of a light bulb. He took a deep breath. Once inside, the stocky kid took the lead. “We‘d be liking a few words with you, is all, Mr. Cockran. National Business Machines is not a good client for your health. I think you‘ll be wanting to reconsider your decision to take this case.”
Cockran smiled in surprise. How the hell did they know that when he hadn‘t even told NBM he would take on the case? Yet here was a dumb mick trying to change his mind with a gun. That didn‘t work with Cockran. There’s only one way to deal with men who talk with guns—speak their own language. His old friend Michael Collins taught him that. One of his “Rules”. Mick. The Big Fella. The man who freed Ireland from the British in 1921, now dead nearly nine years. Cockran intended to follow that rule when the time was right and that wasn‘t far away. Still, he‘d like to know who‘d hired these two bozos.
“You think this is funny?” the stocky man said. Cockran hadn‘t realized he was still smiling. “You won‘t think it‘s so funny when Billy cracks your knee cap. Maybe he even pays a wee visit to your son and makes him a cripple just like his Da.”
Cockran stopped smiling. His captor mistook the smile‘s absence for fear. “There‘s a smart boyo,” the man said. He waved his pistol in Cockran‘s face and looked over to Billy. “Now, wasn‘t I telling ya lawyers were smart fellas?”
Cockran felt blood rushing to his face again. He saw Billy had put his gun away, apparently thinking one was enough to cow Cockran. Threaten his son? Fuck patience!
The stocky kid leaned towards the driver, facing forward. “Pull over at the next block,”
Cockran swung
his left elbow at the stocky man‘s temple––only the man had turned back to say something. It was the wrong moment and Cockran‘s elbow plowed into the man‘s nose instead, which made a sudden popping sound, followed by a startled cry. The man reached for his face with both hands, his gun dropping to the floor. The quiet one froze for a moment, startled by the sickening noise. By the time he made a move to grab him, Cockran had freed his service .45 from its holster and raised it to meet the boy‘s forehead. He brought his free hand around to seize the boy‘s right hand and stop it from going to his gun.
“Don‘t even think about it, Billy,” Cockran said. “You‘ll live longer.”
The quiet one stayed quiet, but Cockran could hear the stocky man moaning as the pain quickly registered. Cockran had to move fast. He had meant to knock the stocky man unconscious but the awkward blow left his hand feeling slightly numb. Cockran let go of Billy‘s hand and reached inside the boy‘s coat for his holstered .38 pistol. It felt soft in his half-numbed hand. He gripped it as best he could and shoved the barrel into the stocky man‘s stomach.
The driver was next. “Pull the car to the curb right now or I‘ll kill them both.” Cockran said in a cold voice. “Keep your hands on the wheel or you‘ll die too.” He felt the car pulling to one side. The stocky man was still moaning and clasping his nose with both hands.
The motor car came to a stop against the curb and Cockran kept his .45 close enough to the quiet one‘s forehead to keep the boy honest. “Get out,” Cockran said. “Facing me.” The boy did as he was told, fumbling behind him for the door and backing out. Once he was out, Cockran let himself glance at the driver––both hands were on the wheel, as told––then at the stocky man. His hands covered his face and they were stained with blood from his shattered nose. The man seemed oblivious to the gun Cockran had stuffed in his belly, so Cockran pulled it back. He pushed himself out the door using his numbed left hand to steady himself.
The Parsifal Pursuit Page 8
