The Great Pretender: A Hector Lassiter novel

by Craig McDonald

  Hector laughed. “As slogans go, that one’s pretty goddamned wonderful. I may have to appropriate that for use in book or a story somewhere.”

  “Sorry, think it’s trademarked now.”

  Hector shrugged, pushing his fedora back on his head with two fingers and softly said, “Well, now that’s a heartbreaker.” He paid their driver, then held Cassie’s kid-gloved hand to help her from the cab.

  The doorman, tall and dark, looked them over, smiled and then winked and licked his lips at Hector as the novelist frowned back. Hector sighed and followed his striking companion down the stairs. He caught himself concentrating on the curve and sway of her hips and as she made her way down the stairs on stiletto heels.

  The patrons were indeed a racial mix. The walls were a riot of murals by Berman, Groth, Hoff and Refregier—emerging artists whose work Hector was pleasantly surprised to recognize.

  Billie Holiday was performing on stage under smoky blue light, belting out a yearning version of When a Woman Loves a Man. The last time Hector had seen Billie perform was at the Cotton Club. Even for its location, that famous Harlem nightspot where the ritzy white classes liked to “slum” remained racially segregated in a way that this newish place strikingly did not.

  An elderly old dark-skinned man led them to a table not far from the stage, then beat Hector to the punch scooting in Cassie’s chair. They ordered two more Old Fashioneds, cocktails that turned out to be stronger and far better made than those at the Cobalt Club.

  Nursing his potent drink, Hector said, “I’ve heard old Heinrich Himmler, S.S. honcho, actually believes Atlantis was real. And that it was maybe in Tibet of all places?”

  Cassie smiled, savoring another cherry. “So you know more than you pretend to about Thule.”

  “Not really, just a little more about the Nazis and those at their crazy upper echelons,” he said. “I’m a novelist, never forget that. Always seeking grist for the fiction mill, just as you said. But candidly, all of this is too out there, even for the likes of me, Cass. I don’t write fantasy or science fiction stuff, you know.”

  She said, “Fair enough. Then what became of what you must therefore see as the meaningless medallion that fell into your and Orson’s hands? Where did it go after reaching Chicago?”

  Hector shrugged. “Truly have no clue. Orson was an up-and-coming actor. The young makeup genius and tyro costume designer. He thought the medallion theatrical looking as all hell, just as I said. So if memory serves about something that seemed so inconsequential years ago, I reckon I let him keep it in that vein. As to whether Orson still has it or not?” A weary shrug. “Hell, by now it could be in the traveling trunk of some two-bit, round-heels actress making the Borscht Belt circuit for all I know. Orson’s nothing if not impetuous.” Hector ended with another shrug. “This gewgaw is really that all-important?”

  “It’s far more than just some ornament,” Cassie said. “It’s a key and a map. A key and a map to a crypt where a legendary relic is stored. A treasure that the Thule—the Nazis—are desperate to lay hands on.”

  “And that’s this so-called Spear of Longinus?” Hector scowled.

  “In theory, Hitler already controls the Spear of Destiny,” she said. “Sadly, it fell into his hands when he seized Austria. It was housed in Vienna back then. Supposedly, Hitler has since had it moved to Germany, to St. Katherine’s Church in Nuremberg, specifically.”

  A funny smile. “Here’s the thing, Hector. It’s almost certain the spear Hitler has is a fake. The story goes it was swapped for a replica in 1931 by a Jewish mystical secret society, done in hopes of keeping it from falling into Thule—or Nazi—hands. The real spear is believed to be now hidden in a crypt somewhere in Rome. The man who stole it from Vienna was an elderly Jewish solider of fortune allegedly known as Rosenblum. That’s your aha moment there, of course. This Rosenblum succeeded in secreting the spear somewhere in Rome, then he was pursued across Europe by one of the early converts to Thule and his minions. Mr. Rosenblum eventually died in Spain almost immediately after giving the medallion over to you and your friend. The finally caught up with the poor, brilliant man just seconds after you met him. That very last part, you two having the disc, remained unknown until just recently. You see, it all kind of stopped there in Spain, the trail, the legends of the medallion. At least until a few weeks ago.”

  Hector said, “So what happened a few weeks ago to change all that?”

  “The Nazis got wind of what happened with Mr. Rosenblum and realized their spear might be bogus,” Cassie said. “Apparently, this Thule whom you and your friend saw in passing in Spain years ago—the very, very tall one, their leader it’s believed, a man named Rune Fuchs—ran afoul of the law shortly after killing Rosenblum. He served several years in prison, which more or less bought you and Orson a few years of peace and quiet from the Nazis and Thules. When this man got out of confinement, and he started to talk to his fellow cult members again, the Thule—now some of them S.S., in actuality—resumed their search for the medallion and the real spear. They resumed the search with gusto and with the belief you or Orson Welles have what they want.”

  “So the actual Spear of Destiny is still in play, or so these idiots think.” Hector rubbed his jaw again. A wry smile. “Gotta say, Mussolini is such a prize idiot, it almost makes me believe something supernatural is propping him up after a fashion. That sorry bastard could drop a rock and miss the ground. Old Benito’s every inch that incompetent.”

  Cassie said, “Anyway, that’s what the medallion is for, a map to the real spear’s location, and a key to opening the vault in which it is hidden.”

  “Yeah,” Hector said, grinding out his cigarette, then draining his drink. He nodded for another libation. “This is leagues past crazy for sure.” Those two dead men nagged at Hector’s mind however. He said, “They came at me directly tonight, as you saw. Jesus Christ, that means Orson, Virginia and their child are probably sitting ducks.”

  “Yes, they’ll eventually move on your friend, and his family, too, if need be,” she said. “You two are the last men definitely known to have seen the medallion, to have held it.”

  A smile and her hand closed over his. “Rest easy for now. I’m not the only one on this from our side you know. Your friend is under a kind of guard, even as we speak. It also doesn’t hurt that FDR and members of his cabinet so fawn over Mr. Welles.”

  “Orson’s got the right kind of politics for Roosevelt’s lefty crowd.” Hector considered her hand touching his, faint bronze on still-tanned white. “You said us. Who is us? Who exactly do you work for, Cassie? You still owe me that much.”

  “It’s a kind of civilian arm of military intelligence,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “I was recruited and then trained in firearms and the like, because I have special skills, you might say that…”

  An announcer stepped into the smoky spotlight, holding up his hands and calling for silence. “Your indulgence, please,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, we need some quiet.”

  When everyone was silent but for a few scattered coughs, he continued, “As has already become custom here at the Café Society, all food service will cease for Miss Holiday’s closing number. In order for you to focus on the true message of her song, there will be no food or drink service, and no encore afterward.”

  The lights went down, plunging the basement room into blackness. Then a single, stark beam fell on Billie Holiday’s face, a huge violet flower pinned up in her glistening black hair.

  She began to sing “Strange Fruit,” a dirge-like ballad about racially motivated lynching, a song said to have been inspired by a photograph of two young black men dangling dead from a tree branch, ropes digging into their ruined necks.

  Southern trees bear a strange fruit,

  Blood on the leaves and blood at the root.

  Respectful silence hung over the room throughout her performance. She ended to thunderous applause. When it was done, Hector settled their tab and said, “I�
�d suggest a brisk walk in the crisp autumn air around the Village to clear our heads and finish your filling in about the matter and nature of your employment. But as we likely still have stalkers out there lying in wait—”

  Cassie suddenly gripped Hector’s handed and nodded toward the entrance. “We need to move, Hector, now.” Four men, all blond and blue-eyed, were brazenly brandishing guns and pushing diners out of their way, stalking toward Cassie and Hector. So much for “lying in wait.”

  A woman screamed, yelled something about guns and then the Ku Klux Klan. Others took up the cry, some diving for cover, other’s rising and scattering while screaming.

  The place erupted as more diners, black and white, scrambled toward the stairs leading up to the front door and the street.

  Hector spotted an illuminated sign that promised a second, rear exit behind the stage. He reached for Cassie’s hand but the crush of panicked diners was carrying her the other way in the resulting stampede.

  Cursing, Hector made for the rear door, two of the men breaking off to pursue him, the other two still trying to reach Cassie.

  CHAPTER 7

  JOURNEY INTO FEAR

  Hector retained the automatic he’d taken earlier in the evening from one of the men Cassie had killed. Ruling out the value—let along the prospects—of potentially taking any prisoners, Hector ran up the steps and then pressed his back to the wall. Feet were pounding up the stairs as he rounded the corner; words were urgently exchanged in German. Hector raised his gun to the level of his shoulder.

  As the two blond men emerged into the windy cold from the cozy club, Hector fired twice. The blond men staggered and fell.

  He chanced a look down the staircase to see if the other two men had maybe broken off their pursuit of Cassie in favor of chasing Hector. He saw more diners had at last realized the place had a second exit; they were just making their way to the foot of the stairs.

  Hector pocketed his gun and dashed around the side of the building before anyone could see him.

  He reached the front of the club in time to see a cab peel off from the curb at speed: Cassie was in the back seat with a gun to the driver’s head.

  A Chrysler Imperial with two blond men in the front seat tore off after her cab.

  Cursing, Hector stalked away from the melee of the dinner club and the hopeless scramble for cabs and cars on the part of its terrified patrons.

  After walking deeper into the Village, Hector at last found his own cab and asked to be taken to Orson’s theater on West 41st Street. He checked his wristwatch in the taxi’s dome light and saw it was now Friday—12:30 a.m., in fact. That was typically a prime-working hour for night owl Orson. That was if the randy Mr. Welles wasn’t instead spending the early morning hours tangled in some dancer’s arms and legs.

  Checking over his shoulder, Hector said to the cab driver, “Understand, I don’t want to go directly where I told you, pal. We’re going to take some alleys and back roads getting there. Indulge me, yeah?”

  The cabbie just winked in the mirror. “The more we drive, the more you gotta pay me. We can go to Atlantic City and back, just the way youse want. Just say the crazy word, pal.”

  This time, Hector was firmly committed to shaking any tails.

  ***

  Hector experienced trouble at the theater door. A balding and imperious man of indeterminate accent refused him entry to the crumbling building. Hector at last managed to catch sight of Welles and called out, “Orson, can you tell this fella I’m truly your friend?”

  Smiling uncertainly, Orson made his way to the theater door. The balding man sniffed in Hector’s direction and said to the young actor, “I suppose this is some other yellow journalist or pulp scribbler whom you mean to try and bring into our cash-starved fold?”

  The man sniffed again and said in a Mid-Atlantic English accent that set Hector’s teeth on edge, “Clearly, this creature is a writer. That fairly comes off him in fetid gusts.”

  Hector smiled ruefully and thrust out a hand. The man, now John Houseman but born Jacques Haussmann, gripped Hector’s bigger mitt reluctantly and shook it limply. Self-important, prissy and condescending—these were Hector’s sorry first impressions of Orson’s primary and increasingly uneasy creative partner on this still-young Friday morning.

  Houseman was rather distantly known to Hector as a name and vexing personality to his young theatrical partner, and the author supposed that what little he thought he knew via Orson colored much of his initial perception of John. Hector had endured Welles’ endlessly bitching on about the growing creative friction he was experiencing with Houseman.

  John had also had a hand in producing some sort of opera that Hector’s one-time mentor, Gertrude Stein, had written a few years ago. Predictably, Gertrude had had strong opinions about all of that, not all of them charitable.

  On the other hand, Hector and John were much closer in age, and so probably experienced many of the same challenges and frustrations in coping with the often petulant boy genius whose friendship they shared. Maybe, Hector thought, the two of them could find fair footing in commiseration about all of that at some point.

  Still, Hector felt a need to needle back, at least a little bit. Letting his Texas tones leak in deeper, he said, “I’ve spent a lot of time in Europe over the years, rangin’ here and there, but your accent is a positive mystery to me, old pal.”

  Obviously pleased by Hector’s digs, Orson split a smile between the two older men and said, “It’s bastardized Romanian. That accent, I mean. What’s the sad saying, John? Being Romanian isn’t a nationality but instead a profession? That is it, isn’t it?”

  Orson’s jibe elicited a frosty smile from Houseman. Hector said, “Anyway, no worries about another artistic mouth to feed. I have no intention or interests in joining the Mercury family, so please don’t fret. I’m a maverick. Never been much of an effective collaborator, and I always pay my own way.”

  Houseman said, “So what is it exactly that you write, Mr. Lassiter?”

  “Doesn’t matter a lick,” Hector said. “Tonight, or this early morning I should say, I’m just an old friend of Orson’s.” He showed Houseman his broad back. “Speaking of which, we need to talk, Orson. We need to do that right now.”

  ***

  Hector led his young friend deeper into his own theater, to a quiet corner. He said softly, “Remember that man who was following me? Well, he’s shot to death.”

  Orson looked up sharply. “You killed him?”

  “Not that one specifically, no. There are some others who’ve died since we last talked. They died just as badly. You’re tied up in this, too, I’m afraid. It spirals from stuff years back, from when we were in Spain together. We need to get back to your place. You and I need to get your family and put you and them some place safe.”

  Orson held up his hands. “Slow down there, old man. What on earth is going on? I have deadlines, several commitments. Performances.”

  Hector took his young friend by the arm. He roughly pulled him toward a back exit, simultaneously drawing his gun.

  “I’m serious, Orson. You’re just going to have to trust me on all this. I’ll explain on the way.”

  CHAPTER 8

  CONFIDENTIAL REPORT

  On the cab ride to Orson’s place, Hector caught Welles up on his strange and bloody Thursday night. Hector lit a cigarette as he unfurled his tale; Orson worked at a pipe. The novelist closed his Zippo, pocketed it and cracked his window; he’d always hated the smell of pipes. He said, “Our politics—our differences there—I have some sense of.”

  Orson struck a match and at last got his pipe going. He flung the match out the window, cranked the window closed and shivered. “Yes, yours are narrow-minded and wrong. Even selfish. Republican, I suspect. Where are you going with this, Hector?”

  “Religion,” Hector said. “Faith. About those matters, I don’t have a strong sense where you’re concerned.”

  “Oh, I try to be a good Christian,” Orso
n said, settling back in his seat, wreathed in pipe smoke. “But I don’t pray too often. Don’t want to bore God, I suppose.”

  Hector smiled. “That’s a swell line.” It also struck Hector as one that was very practiced, a celebrity’s bon mot for the wags along the Great White Way. He turned in his seat so he could watch their wake. “What about the occult,” Hector said. “Do you set any stock in this Thule stuff about ancient weapons and their supernatural powers? In all this satanic stuff?”

  “If you believe in God, you must be prepared to believe in the Devil, Hector.” Orson blew more smoke. “As it happens, my grandmother was a witch.” He said it matter-of-factly.

  Hector shook his head and said, “My condolences.”

  “No, I’m being quite serious.” Orson’s voice grew sonorous. “I loathed the woman, the smelly, evil dwarf. She had a black magic shrine on the top floor of her home. I watched her perform a sabbat there, little me spying on her from a closet. She actually put a curse on my parents’ marriage, the sick bitch. I’d discount that but for the fact she so loathed my mother, who then died quite shockingly when I was nine.”

  That million-dollar radio voice cracked. “At my father’s funeral, the old bitch actually managed to have crept in satanic nonsense from Madame Blavatsky and Aleister Crowley, had it wedged in there in stinking dollops between the Bible verses. Did you know Blavatsky placed a swastika on the cover of her book years and years before the Nazi’s appropriated the symbol? It’s quite true.”

  Hector didn’t know that. Layers of pipe smoke now filled the cab. He cracked his window wider. He noticed their driver doing the same. Hector checked the street behind them. All seemed to be clear behind them for the moment.

  Orson said, “Hector, you actually met Crowley—the so-called ‘Wickedest Man Alive’ in person, didn’t you? I seem to remember hearing from someone that you did.”