The Dead Don't Bleed: A Novel

by David Krugler

  An old, old interrogator’s trick, that, springing a seemingly innocent question after the interview ends. And Ted Barston didn’t need Ellis Voigt’s help to see through it.

  “Warn’t my choice,” I said.

  “I see. But you were discharged, correct?”

  “A’course. I got my papers, you wanna see ’em.”

  “Perhaps I should. We wouldn’t want to employ a man who was absent without leave, would we?”

  She was prodding me again—why? Just to show she was in charge or because she didn’t believe I was Ted Barston for real?

  “Unauthorized Absence,” I replied.

  “What?”

  “Dat’s what da Navy calls it. A.W.O.L.—dat’s an Army name.”

  She bristled and said, “Well, whatever it’s called, we want to make sure it doesn’t apply to you.”

  “Awright, I’ll bring my certificate tomorrow.”

  “Make sure that you do.”

  I left, lighting up as I looked for Philip Greene. He frowned when I found him talking to a clipper—er, “collector”—at a long table.

  “We disapprove of smoking in the materials area,” he said.

  “Sorry ’bout dat.” I hustled over to the reception, giving Miriam a big wink as I took a long drag and stubbed my Old Gold out in the ashtray on the coffee table. She gave me a furtive smile. At least she didn’t appear upset that I’d ducked out on her the night before.

  “Miss Silva said you got a map I could study,” I announced to Greene when I returned.

  “A map? Of what?”

  “Da city, Washington. So’s I can make deliveries. Gotta know where I’m going, hey?”

  “You mean you don’t know your way around?”

  “Just moved here.” Shrugging.

  A clipper, a rotund middle-aged man with a graying brush cut, smiled and started to chuckle until a glare from Greene turned his attention back to a dismembered edition of the Cleveland Plain Dealer.

  “Well, all right, follow me,” Greene said peevishly. He took me to a map cabinet set against the wall, pulled out a drawer, and poked through the contents. Handing me a worn copy of the Rand McNally Standard Map of Washington, 1941 edition, he pointed to a table in the “materials area” that was only partially occupied.

  “You can study it at the end of that table.”

  “Okay.”

  “No smoking, remember.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “We’ve got a lot of deliveries scheduled for this afternoon, so you need to memorize that map, not just pretend to look at it.”

  “You bet.”

  “What sort of vehicle do you drive, Barston?”

  I checked the urge to smile. “You better ask Mister Himmel ’bout dat.”

  He frowned, not understanding. It would have been fun to tell him I’d be driving his “vehicle,” but I didn’t need to needlessly antagonize him. At least not yet.

  AS THE MUTED SOUNDS OF GREENE’S PROTESTS CARRIED FROM HIMMEL’S closed office, I pored over the map. I knew the city better than Ted Barston did, but there were parts of D.C. I’d never been to, so the geography lesson was helpful. I hadn’t known there was an Alaska Avenue, let alone how to get there. (Appropriately, it was way north.) Knowing how jammed Rhode Island Avenue got during peak times, I was pleased to learn I could take New York Avenue to Bladensburg Road instead, should I need to get to far Northeast D.C. After forty-five minutes, I jotted down five addresses scattered across the city, closed the map, and wrote down the best routes to get to these sites. This was an exercise we’d done many times at the Funhouse, often under stressful circumstances—using torn maps, say, or working in the dark. Figuring I deserved a smoke break, I wandered over to the reception and lit up.

  “How’s the homework going?” Miriam asked. She was wearing a plum-colored blouse with a pale blue scarf tucked around her neck. Her ruby red lipstick went well with her outfit, and I wondered what kind of skirt she was wearing. Black, with matching cotton stockings? We were having a chilly spring, and office girls were still wearing stockings.

  “Dandy. And how’re you, Miss Miriam?”

  “I’m good, thank you.”

  “So, Miriam, I never thanked you for dose directions last night.”

  “Directions?”

  “Yeah, you know. At the bus stop, when we ran into each other. You were very helpful.”

  Now she caught on, and smiled. “Glad I could be so helpful, Mister Barston.”

  “Maybe I could repay da favor sometime, Miss Miriam.”

  “I’d like that, Mister—”

  “Miriam, do you have those invoices ready?”

  Silva’s sharp-toned query preceded her swift crossing of the materials area, a bulging expandable folder clutched in her arms.

  “Yes, Miss Silva, right here.” Miriam picked up a neat stack of rustling onionskin sheets and extended them.

  “Don’t give them to me, Miriam—put them in your outbox.”

  Miriam took the chiding without comment as Silva turned her attention to me.

  “Don’t bother the receptionist when she’s working, Ted.”

  “Was just thanking her, s’all.”

  “For what?”

  “Ran into her on K Street after work yesterday. She gave me directions on what bus I should take ta get home.”

  “You seem to have trouble with directions, Ted,” Silva said, glancing conspicuously at the table where I’d left the map.

  “I’m all done studying, Miss Silva. Gimme a quiz, I’ll pass with flying colors.”

  So she did, rattling off a string of addresses. I promptly identified the best routes. She thought she had me on the last one, rebuking me for saying I’d take Alabama Avenue Southeast instead of Bruce Place to get to Suitland Parkway. I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t apologize when I pointed out that Bruce Place dead-ended in a park.

  “Put the map away then and get Philip’s keys—your first deliveries are ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And knock on Mister Himmel’s door—he wants to see you before you go.”

  I nodded, stubbed out my cigarette, and shot Miriam a parting smile. Could I set up a date for us that night? I wondered. How soon could I start questioning Miriam about who came and went from H & H on a regular basis? Finding a way to get her to talk about Logan Skerrill would be tricky—I couldn’t ask her directly. I set these questions aside to focus on Himmel. What did he want?

  I knocked, entered at the come in. Himmel was standing, looking out his window, though there wasn’t much to see, just the brick wall of the building across the alley. Gray smoke wafted from a cigar in his left hand.

  “Please, be seated,” he said to the window.

  I sat and lit up.

  After a long pause, Himmel turned to face me, but he didn’t return to his desk. “I’m told it’s important for bosses to have the office with the best view,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t know nuttin’ ’bout dat, Mister Himmel.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. As it happens, this is the only office here with a view.” He glanced at the window, as if I was supposed to compliment it.

  A blind alley, yeah, I get it. Risky for a clandestine communist—and a foreign national—to be dropping metaphors like that. I hoped it meant Ted Barston had passed muster.

  “Philip and I read more about your father last night, Ted.”

  “Dat’s good.”

  “Shame what happened to him.”

  “Yeah, and den some.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Just a saying, s’all. More dan a shame, I guess you’d say.” I hoped I wasn’t overdoing it—Ted Barston didn’t seem like the kind of guy who grieved.

  “Yes, well, I think you will make a good addition to our staff, Ted.” Himmel let that statement linger, like the smoke from his cigar, watching me closely.

  I added to the smoke and said, “M’sure glad ta hear dat, Mister Himmel. Like I was telling Miss Silva a little b
it ago, nobody’s gonna be disappointed in me.”

  “That’s good to hear, Ted.”

  “And I’m all set ta make my first deliveries.”

  “Yes, Philip and I just discussed your use of his automobile.”

  “Dat’s not gonna be a problem, is it?”

  He exhaled. To judge by the smoke, Himmel liked fine cigars. I turned my head subtly to glimpse the band—sure enough, a Montecristo.

  “No, it won’t be.”

  “Okay, den. I better get ta it, hey?”

  He nodded. I stood and reached to carefully stub my Old Gold out in a glass ashtray reefed with cigar ash.

  “One last thing, Ted.”

  “Yeah, Mister Himmel?”

  “On some of your deliveries, the client will give you a package to bring back here.”

  “Okay, no problem. You want I should give dose packages to Miss Silva or Mister Greene?”

  “Neither of them, Ted—I want you to bring the packages to me.” He gave me a long, steady look.

  “Sure thing.”

  “I don’t want you to say anything to Nadine or Philip about these packages. Do you understand, Ted?”

  “You bet, Mister Himmel.”

  “Good.”

  And with that I left, tingling with excitement—and alarm.

  CHAPTER 14

  I COULD BARELY FOCUS ON MAKING MY FIRST DELIVERY, I WAS SO BUSY thinking about what had just happened. It seemed too good to be true. Ted Barston waltzes into H & H, bluffs his way into a job, and the next day he’s tapped to be a courier. Would I have time to take the packages to the Navy Building before giving them to Himmel? We had labs, we could open packages and reseal them without leaving a trace—at the Funhouse, they’d given us a demonstration. I could set everything up with Terrance, who could make sure everything was waiting. The lab boys would snap pictures, fix the packages back up, and I’d be on my way.

  Then it hit me, while I was driving north on Thirteenth to deliver a box of clippings to a one-man law firm: Was Himmel setting me up? No package to pick up, just a trap to walk into. The delivery would look legitimate, but I’d be waylaid before I got to the door, shot on the street, or, more likely, in an alley—the manifest would tell me to come to a rear entrance. As I lay bleeding to death on the cobblestones, just like Logan Skerrill, the shooter would turn out my pockets and run off with my delivery to make it look like a robbery. Which is exactly how the Metropolitan Police would work it, if they spent any time on the case at all. How could you solve a random robbery gone wrong, the killer not knowing that this particular deliveryman had nothing of value to take? But Paslett and the O.N.I. would come down on H & H like Thor’s hammer—wouldn’t Himmel, Silva, and Greene realize they’d be in the crosshairs if I was killed? Unless they planned to be in the wind as soon as my body hit the pavement.

  I pulled over to calm myself, setting the parking brake of Greene’s rusty ’31 Ford. I needed to talk to Terrance, needed to set up a meeting. He could help me figure out my next step. He also could get me Barston’s discharge papers to show Silva the next morning.

  I dropped a nickel in a druggist’s telephone booth and dialed the number I’d memorized. It didn’t ring at the Naval Building—if I was being followed, my tail could stroll in after I left and ask the operator for the last number dialed. That’s why Embassy 3518 rang at the Irving Street Apartment Hotel. The owner was a carefully screened civilian, one of dozens paid modest retainers by the O.N.I. When the telephone rang, he would say, “Irving Hotel,” nothing more. If I heard anything different, I’d hang up immediately. The telephone rang twice, then a gruff voice:

  “Irving Hotel.”

  I said, “One of your residents, Hal Evans, told me you have a vacancy.”

  “I’m sorry, that room’s been filled.”

  I hung up and checked my watch: 10:17. At that moment, Terrance was receiving a similarly coded telephone call. Within thirty minutes, he would be at the pre-arranged meeting point we were using while I was undercover. If he was out of the Navy Building, Paslett would take his place. I had just enough time to make my delivery to the lawyer, get to the rendezvous, then finish my other drop-offs.

  MERLE PREAK, ATTORNEY AT LAW, WASN’T A HIRED GUN, JUST A HARRIED little man in a vest and rolled-up sleeves who scraped out his living handling divorces. Now I understood why he hired H & H to clip announcements from the classifieds, the kind that read To whom it may concern: From the tenth day of April, 1945, I am no longer responsible for any debts other than those contracted by myself, signed. . . . Unfaithful husbands took out ads like that to protect themselves from vengeful wives who might run up the limit on a credit account at Hecht’s or Woodies. Unable to afford a secretary, Preak used H & H to sniff out traces of domestic strife and warring spouses so he could call and offer his services. He barely acknowledged me, motioning me into his cramped office. Took the box, dropped it on a wooden chair along the wall, and scribbled his name on the manifest, not bothering to respond to my parting Have a nice day, sir.

  Paslett had come with Terrance to the meeting point, a billiards parlor on Ninth and F. According to the O.N.I. file, Barston had liked to play nine-ball, so it wouldn’t look suspicious if he killed an idle hour shooting stick. The commander and Terrance had both changed into civvies, my partner wearing faded dungarees, a black T-shirt, and a tan zip-up jacket. A bull of a man, Terrance naturally looked like a Teamster or a mechanic—he fit in perfectly. Paslett didn’t. Probably thought his creased gray trousers and white shirt with red pinstripes made him look like a shipping clerk, but his posture and bearing were all wrong; life as an officer had made it impossible for him to slouch, sprawl, or scratch himself like a real clerk. Watching Terrance take a shot, the commander held his cue ramrod-straight, like a swagger stick. I could make a game or two of nine-ball with Terrance look natural, the cocky Barston loafing on his first day of work, but billiards with a second man who looked so out of place was a dead giveaway.

  Terrance shot me a look as I approached their table. What could I do? The parlor was long and expansive. Ceiling fans hung from beams joining the walls, swirling cigar and cigarette smoke into wispy clouds. The bar was in the rear, half of its stools occupied even at this early hour, lone men sipping shots and beer backs. A radio murmured the news, two hustlers practicing bank shots eyed us over. Ignoring them, I took a cue stick from the wall rack and nodded my greeting to Terrance and Paslett.

  “How’s it hanging, Barston?” Terrance said as he bent over the table to shoot. They were playing nine-ball.

  “Awright.”

  Paslett asked, “Found a job yet?” Trying to sound nonchalant.

  I hid my wince. Even in character, he sounded like a superior officer.

  “Yeah, sorta.” I lit an Old Gold and inhaled greedily. “Deliveries, part-time.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.” Terrance missed his shot. Intentionally, it looked like, to put Paslett at the table.

  “Dunno. Gotta show ’em my discharge certificate tomorrow. Dey might not like what it says.”

  My partner ticked his chin, indicating he understood what I needed. “You’re just making deliveries, whatta they care about where you been?”

  “Dis real ball-buster runs da office, she’s already got it in for me.”

  “But somebody must like you there, huh?” asked Paslett, who had made one shot and missed the next.

  “Yeah, da owner, he and me hit it off real good. He remembered my pop.”

  “What kinda deliveries you gotta make?”

  “Dese small packages, nuttin’ heavy.”

  “Sounds easy,” Paslett said.

  “Yeah, ’cept sometimes, m’supposed to also make exchanges.”

  Terrance nodded absently, methodically chalking his cue. “You supposed to inspect the returns, before you accept ’em?” Translation: Will you be able to bring the packages to us?

  “Dey didn’t tell me.” Maybe, maybe not.

  “Well, you’ll get the
hang of it.” This from Paslett, his way of saying, Figure it out, Voigt!

  “Yeah, I guess so. Just hope da first customer don’t blame me for him not liking da goods.” What if I’m being set up?

  “Shoot the messenger, huh?” Terrance remarked as he sent the cue ball hurtling across the felt at the nine ball. Too hard, boxed the pocket.

  “Happens, don’t it?”

  Paslett said, “You do a good job, I’m sure you’ll have nothing to worry about.” If you don’t make any mistakes, you’ll be fine.

  “Gee, thanks.” Which charitably translated as Not helpful, but more accurately said—

  “Aw, fuck, Ted, you worry too much,” Terrance piped up. “Oughta let me do your worrying for you.” His way of saying he’d watch my back, that he’d tail me the rest of the day and stay close, ready to jump in if I was being set up.

  I nodded, trying not to let my relief show. “Yeah, dat’s a good idea.”

  Paslett missed a shot at the nine ball, Terrance didn’t. I leaned my cue against the table and racked balls one through nine in the wooden triangle as the commander took a seat and lit a cigarette. I sank the five ball on the break but missed the one ball on my follow-up.

  “What’re you using to make deliveries?” Paslett asked.

  “Dis real rustbucket, belongs ta one’a da managers.”

  “Owner musta really taken a shine to you, let you borrow the staff’s vehicle like that.”

  Terrance, out of the commander’s view, rolled his eyes. I pretended to concentrate on my shot at the three ball, my partner having made two shots. I wanted to finish this game and skedaddle—if I didn’t finish my deliveries pronto, Silva and Himmel would get suspicious.

  After I sank the three and four balls and was lining up a ricochet to bank the nine ball in, Terrance said, “So are you the only delivery guy?” Can you tell us anything more about the staff before you have to leave?

  I couldn’t think of a safe way to tell them what Griffin Crieve had told me about Himmel, Silva, and Greene being Russian spies, so I decided to keep it simple.

  “Well, besides dat ball-buster I told you about—Silva, Nadine Silva’s her name—dare’s dis fella Greene, Philip Greene, I guess he’s an account representative or sometin’ like dat. A real fussbudget, telling me not ta smoke, asking do I know my way around da city, on my case. But da receptionist, dis gal Miriam, she’s nice. I got a feeling she and me are gonna get on real good.” I’m working her as a source to see what I can find out about Logan Skerrill and the clipping service.