by Andrew Hunt
“Art,” I said. “Art Oveson.”
“Yes, of course, Art Oveson!”
A narrow-faced man in a black suit, bald on the sides and back of his head, with a heavily pomaded strip of hair atop his skull, materialized by Heinrich’s side, like a shadow. Frail in appearance, halting in his movements, he wore a lapel pin with the gold words NATIONAL-SOZIALISTISCHE D.A.P. inside of a red ring encircling a black swastika on a white circle. No getting away from that thing, I thought. He held out a hand and I shook it.
“Where are my manners?” asked Heinrich. “Art Oveson, this is Ernst Voss, with the Reich’s Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. Ernst, this is Art Oveson, a detective with the Salt Lake City Police Department. Did I get that right?”
“You did,” I said, with a wink and smile. I switched my attention to Voss. “Good to know you.”
“My pleasure,” said Voss dryly, with as much sincerity as he could muster.
Someone else emerged from that Third Reich tent: a striking woman with blue eyes, shoulder-length curly golden hair, and a shirt so white it almost blinded me. Her beige jodhpurs went with a pair of high black boots, covered with desert dust. Unlike Voss, she smiled as she came toward me, showing off a mouthful of perfect white teeth. At least she was not wearing a swastika. I was getting tired of looking at those things. Her hand was soft and cool and came with the lightest of grips, and I caught a faint whiff of perfume.
“This is Fräulein Leni Riefenstahl, one of our most renowned directors,” said Voss. “She’s here to make a documentary motion picture about the new land speed record that will be set by Herr Heinrich.”
“I haven’t broken it yet, Ernst,” laughed Heinrich.
“No,” said Voss, with a slight grin. “But you will.”
Heinrich ignored Voss’s comment. “Fräulein Riefenstahl, Art is the policeman that saved Clive Underhill’s life after that terrible accident on Saturday.”
“Oh, a heroic American,” said Riefenstahl, beaming. “Like Charles Lindbergh.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said. “But that’s kind of you to say.”
She abruptly cupped my chin in her hand and forced my head to my left. It startled me, the intensity of it, and almost gave me whiplash. I glanced at her in my peripheral vision as she inspected my profile, then she placed her hand on my other cheek and pivoted my head forward again.
I wondered what this was all about?
“You have a perfect face for cinema,” she said. “It’s lean. It’s authentic. Not excessively pretty, like Gary Cooper, but not fleshy, either. Your high cheekbones and thick hair are cinematic assets. I like a lean man. I prefer men without too much meat on their bones. Tell me, have you ever been in a motion picture?”
“No ma’am,” I said. “I have not.”
“You are a quintessential man of the West,” she said approvingly. “I must ask you if you’re partial to the novels of Karl May?”
“I haven’t heard of him.”
Her mouth went slack and her eyes widened. “How can that be? He is the great novelist of the American West. The Führer adores his books.”
“I’ll be sure and give them a look-at one of these days,” I said.
Riefenstahl took out a pencil and patted herself down. She mumbled in German what sounded like an expression of frustration. When I looked at her with a puzzled expression, she said, “I forgot my card.”
“Oh. I see.”
She fished out a book of matches, opened it, and scribbled something on the inside for an awkward minute. When she was done, she stuffed the matchbook in my shirt pocket.
“I hope our paths cross again, Herr Oveson,” she said. “Soon.”
She walked over to the man standing next to the movie camera and began conversing with him in German.
Voss said, “Is there something we can do to help you, Oveson?”
“I was hoping to have a few minutes alone with Rudy here, to ask him a couple of questions,” I said.
“Oh? Am I in trouble?” Heinrich asked with a nervous chuckle.
“No,” I said. “It’s routine police business.”
“I’m in charge of Heinrich’s itinerary,” said Voss. “If you wish to interview him, you must submit a formal letter of request on official police stationery, as well as a list of the questions you will be asking for my approval.”
“Perhaps we might loosen our rules for Art,” Heinrich chimed in. “No point in making this process harder for him than it has to be.”
“I’ll consider an exception in this instance,” said Voss. “Let’s first allow Fräulein Riefenstahl to film the scenes of you unveiling the car. After she has obtained her footage, you may answer the policeman’s questions. In my presence, of course.”
“OK,” I said. “Fair enough.”
I saw Heinrich shake his head in exasperation behind Voss’s back. I offered a sympathetic grin and walked away, melting into the crowd. I arrived at a decent spot from which to view the action, and I watched with my arms folded over my chest. While Heinrich made his way over to the enormous canvas tent that protected his machine from the sun and bystanders, I reached for the matchbook that Riefenstahl stuffed in my pocket. I opened it to see what she wrote. It took me a fraction of a second to decipher her scribbles, but when I finally did, my heart nearly leapt out of my chest.
BEN LOMOND HOTEL, RM 1101. MIDNIGHT. COME FUCK ME. LR
I swallowed hard and, with a shaky hand, stuffed the matchbook in my jacket pocket. I caught my breath. I wasn’t sure if my heart was ever going to slow down. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. To calm my jitters, I scanned the sea of hats around me, stopping at the mounted camera over at the front of the crowd where Riefenstahl worked alongside her cinematographer. Our eyes met, and I don’t think I was imagining things when I saw her purse her lips and blow a kiss. I quickly looked away. Now I had a fierce case of the shakes.
Around me camera shutters clicked, movie cameras whirred, and the audience “oohed” and “ahhed” as Heinrich drove the twenty-seven-foot-long silvery racing vehicle—a futuristic marvel with a low cockpit window, stubby wings, twin tailfins, and curvaceous front fenders—out of the tent garage, revving the engine loudly for show. For some reason, seeing the thing soothed my jangled nerves. While a small band played German military music with lots of horn and drum, two announcers spoke over a loudspeaker, one in German, the other in English.
“The Mercedes-Benz P9 is a miracle of modern design,” said a placid-voiced female with a German accent. “This six-wheeled land racer prototype is powered by a V12 engine capable of reaching speeds of up to seven hundred and fifty kilometers per hour, or four hundred and seventy miles per hour. The building of the P9 has taken place under the brilliant supervision of Dr. Ferdinand Porsche, the famous engineer who is the driving force behind the German Auto Union.”
“What are you doing out here?”
I turned to see Albert Shaw behind me, talking softly out of the corner of his mouth. The brim of his hat shaded his face to such an extent that I almost did not recognize him.
“Last I checked, I’m on the payroll of the Salt Lake City Police Department,” I said, missing out on the loudspeaker chatter about Heinrich’s car. “That means I don’t answer to you or anyone else in Underhill’s entourage.”
“No need to get defensive, Oveson,” said Shaw. “I asked a simple question. I was actually wondering about the progress of your investigation.”
“It barely started, so I haven’t gotten far. It doesn’t help that you omitted a key piece of information from yesterday’s conversation.”
“Oh? And what would that have been?”
“You didn’t mention the man that Clive met at the Old Mill,” I said. “He must’ve meant something, if Clive was willing to risk sneaking out in the night on two separate occasions to go see him.”
“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” said Shaw.
“Does the name Vau
ghn Perry ring any bells?” I asked. “He’s the tour guide that Clive was talking to that night.”
“How did you know?” asked Shaw.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “What does matter is if Clive isn’t back here in this very spot by Saturday to compete with Heinrich, you’re going to have the press to answer to. I won’t be able to cover for you or him. This mystery man I’m just now hearing about—no thanks to you—might hold the key to Clive’s whereabouts. Where can I find him?”
“I honestly don’t know. He’s someone Clive met years ago.”
“Why didn’t you mention him to me yesterday, when the others were present?”
“I didn’t want Dot to worry about Clive,” he said. “I was trying to protect her.”
“So you don’t know who he is?”
“No.”
“Or where I can find him?”
“No.”
“Then why do you say you’re trying to protect Dot? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I’m not sure I like this line of questioning,” said Shaw.
“Neither do I. It wouldn’t be necessary if you’d come clean. I know you’re holding back. I’m going to find what I’m looking for, with or without your help. You might as answer my question and spare me the wear and tear on my shoe soles.”
For some reason, my comment made Shaw laugh. His reaction puzzled me.
“I don’t see what’s so funny.”
“I find your naïveté amusing. Look around you. What do you make of all this?” When Shaw asked the question, he gestured to the P9, and Heinrich waving to the crowd. The press swarmed around the German and he began answering their questions, far enough away that we couldn’t hear him.
“It looks to me like just another dog and pony show,” I said.
“Is that all you see?”
“Is there more?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. This is a battle between two powers, one representing light, the other darkness.”
“Oh brother,” I said. “Let’s not blow things out of proportion. It’s just a competition to see who can drive the fastest.”
“Spoken like a man who has the luxury of a big ocean separating you from Europe,” said Shaw. “Hitler is obsessed with automobiles—everything about them. Engineering. Performance. Racing. Have you heard of the Autobahn?”
“Yeah, it’s a big highway in Germany,” I said.
“For the last five years, the Führer has personally overseen the construction of thousands of miles of Autobahn,” said Shaw. “Day in, day out, tens of thousands of men toil away on it, slavishly toiling in the service of their dictator. It’s one of the first huge projects that Hitler launched after he came to power. At the same time, he also offered to pay half a million reichsmarks to any German automobile manufacturer willing to develop a new generation of high-speed Grand Prix cars.”
“So he wants to be the fastest kid on the block,” I said. “Who cares? As long as the price of meat stays the same.”
“I know you’re smarter than that, Oveson,” said Shaw. “Ask yourself this: Why aren’t they trying to set a new speed record on all of those miles of Autobahn track they’ve got in Germany? Why do it here?”
“It’s Salt Flats,” I said. “The preeminent land speed racing spot on earth.”
“You’re obviously incapable of thinking like a Nazi,” said Shaw. “It’s not good enough to be the best inside of Germany. This little spectacle happening around us is all about giving the rest of the world a good drubbing. But for a madman like Hitler, the satisfaction only lasts so long.”
I grinned in disbelief. “Do you honestly think a big shot like Hitler cares about what’s happening here?”
“I’ll turn the question around, Oveson. Can’t you get it into that head of yours that there’s more to this than auto racing? We are talking about a tyrant that intends to conquer the world in every possible way, and he’s made those intentions known to anybody that’ll listen. It doesn’t stop at fast cars, either. This man is not going to quit until the swastika flies over that state capitol of yours in Salt Lake City. He is determined. He is relentless. He is fanatical. He has vast resources at his fingertips. Millions of men and women follow him blindly and will do whatever he orders them to do.” Shaw shifted his attention back to the endless, glittery raceway before us. “We live in perilous times,” he finally said. “What you see here is only the beginning.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, Mr. Gloom and Doom.”
“Don’t look now, but your favorite Nazi racer is leaving.”
Shaw was right. Off in the distance, Heinrich slipped into a black limousine with tiny Nazi flags attached to the front fenders. Ernst Voss, his unnerving little shadow, climbed in next and pulled the door closed. Riefenstahl boarded her own luxury car while her cinematographer disassembled the movie camera. In the meantime, a couple of oil-stained grease monkeys navigated Heinrich’s P9 onto the back of a trailer attached to a truck, where it would presumably be taken to wherever the Germans were storing it.
I briefly flirted with the option of bolting to the front of the crowd to stop the limousine, so I could grill Heinrich. Then I recalled that book of matches in my shirt pocket, the one with the lewd scrawl from Riefenstahl. She gave me a room number at Ben Lomond Hotel in Ogden, a burgh north of Salt Lake City. It was a safe bet that Heinrich would be staying in the same place.
I turned to say something to Albert Shaw, but I missed him, too. Now a ways away, he and Pangborn and Insley had boarded an automobile and closed the doors, and its whitewalls sprayed salt as it sped off across the desert, toward civilization. The crowd continued to thin as car doors slammed and engines started, and all the while I watched sullen workers taking down those large red-white-and-black swastika banners.
Sixteen
When big shots visit Utah they’d typically stay in one of three hotels: the Ben Lomond in Ogden, or the Newhouse or Hotel Utah in Salt Lake City. The Ben Lomond, eleven floors of sheer elegance, opened for business in 1927 on the corner of Washington Boulevard and 25th Street in Ogden, a thriving Wasatch Front burgh on the western side of the Wasatch Mountains. Getting there from Salt Lake City was easy: a straight shot up the highway, forty-five minutes to an hour, and you would find yourself in one of the busiest railway, manufacturing, and commerce hubs in the American West.
Arriving at the Ben Lomond, I desperately sought out shade to park my car under, but found none near the hotel. So I eased between a pair of coupes, killed my Dodge’s engine, and left the windows rolled down. I figured: so what if someone steals the car radio? It was one of those cheap factory Detroit numbers that came with the car anyway. I got out, slammed the door, and zigzagged through rows of neatly parked autos. Everywhere I went, the sun’s blinding reflection flashed. I entered the lobby—every bit as swanky as the Hotel Utah—and approached the long front desk, where I patted a call bell. A gentleman in a dark suit approached me and welcomed me to the Ben Lomond in a velvety, singsong voice.
“I need Rudy Heinrich’s room number,” I said.
He smiled ever so slightly. “Sorry sir, I’m afraid there is nobody by that name staying here.”
He didn’t even bother looking at a guest book.
I flashed my badge. “Detective Art Oveson, Salt Lake City Police Department,” I said. “I know he’s staying here. I need to have a word with him. It won’t take long. What’s his room number?”
“Like I said, we have no guest by that name here,” he said, smile fading. “I do apologize, sir. I hope you have a pleasant day.”
I drummed on the counter with my fingers for a few seconds as I contemplated my next move.
“Thank you,” I said.
I headed to the exit, crossing white marble floors that reflected the chandeliers high above. I stopped at a potted palm and glanced backward, and the fellow who’d helped me at the front desk was talking to a big man who obstructed his view of me. I used that as my opportunity to make a beeline for th
e elevators. I remembered Leni Riefenstahl writing RM 1101 along with that lewd scrawl. If the Germans were anything like their British counterparts, they probably rented a cluster of rooms together, I reasoned. I walked inside one of the elevator cars and a green-suited elevator operator with a matching peaked cap punched a button that brought a pair of mirrored doors together.
“Which floor?”
“Eleventh.”
He punched the button with 11 on it and the elevator lurched upward, stirring butterflies in my stomach. A second later, the doors opened again, and I pocketed the matchbook and muttered my thanks on my way out into the hallway. Heading past 1101, thinking of Leni Riefenstahl, made the butterflies in my stomach act up. I pressed on. The walk down the dimly lit corridor to room 1102 gave me an opportunity to contemplate my next move. Nearing the suites, I heard the door to room 1102 open, so I rushed around the next corner. I found myself in an unlit dead-end nook facing a locked door bearing the nameplate CLEANING STAFF. From this prime hiding spot, I peeked around the corner, shocked to see Peter Insley shaking hands with a burly and bespectacled bald man in a black suit and matching necktie. I pulled my head back so as not be seen, and attempted to eavesdrop on their conversation. To my frustration, I could not hear their soft-spoken words from here.
One thing that did register clearly was Peter saying: “Auf Wiedersehen.”
That told me what I needed to know. The door closed and Peter walked off in the direction of the elevators. I waited a minute or so in that darkened corner, then crossed the hall to the tall black door with 1102 in gold numbers. I took a deep breath, balled my hand into a fist, and knocked. Seconds later, the door opened. Rudy Heinrich looked dapper in his dark blue striped suit.
“Kripo!” he said, with a toothy smile and genuine excitement in his voice. “Long time, no see!”
We shook hands and he gestured for me to enter. “Please.”
I entered a large sitting room that contained a sofa and armchairs surrounding an ornate coffee table. I came face-to-face with a sinewy man in his mid-thirties with peach fuzz hair, a neck bulging with cable-like muscles, and a formfitting brown suit with a red tie. The outline of a firearm in a shoulder holster pressed through his jacket’s fabric.
