Rip the Angels from Heaven

by David Krugler

  “Greene says he didn’t kill Skerrill.”

  “Well, I hope you’ve released him posthaste—we can’t have innocent men cluttering our prisons now, can we?”

  “Greene says he knows who killed Skerrill for real.”

  I shrugged, worked on my cheeseburger.

  “We laughed, we patted him on the head for being a funny boy. Greene says but listen.”

  “D’you tell him the Bureau only listens through bugs?”

  “So we listen. Said commie stooge makes his case, point by point. All of a sudden, we’re not laughing anymore.”

  “That’s too bad. You Bureau boys need more laughter in your lives.”

  But Slater was just warming up. “Said commie stooge has no proof, he’s got no evidence. But he tells us: dig, and dig deep. So that’s what we’re doing, Voigt: we’re digging, and digging deep.” He studied me closely, like a salesman who’d finished his pitch.

  Hell if I was going to take the bait, no way I was going to ask: Golly, whose name did Greene give you? Instead I said, “Listen up, buttercup, I don’t give a rat’s ass what name said commie stooge coughed up, because Greene did Skerrill on Himmel’s orders. And yeah, Greene pulled the trigger, but Skerrill’s blood is all over the Bureau’s hands, got it? Cause if you and your toadie boss hadn’t tried to run him as a source, no hit woulda been ordered. You shoulda arrested him the second he came to you, we shoulda been interrogating him from the get-go. But no, you Hooverites got cute, and it got a sworn officer of the U.S. Navy killed. He was a traitor, sure, but he didn’t deserve to bleed to death in a crummy alley—and that’s all on you.” I wagged a fry for emphasis. Fortuitously, I’d dragged it through catsup first and a dab splattered on his tie.

  Slater plucked a napkin from the dispenser and dipped it in my water glass to wipe off his tie. “Nice try, Voigt, but you boo-hooing for the late great Logan Skerrill—well, that just doesn’t cut it, does it?” And with that, he left.

  I pushed my platter aside. I’d eaten too fast, now I had indigestion. I lit a Lucky to calm my stomach and my nerves. Slater had wanted me to ask for the name Greene had given, but I hadn’t played along. So he’d found a different way to tell me. You boo-hooing for the late great Logan Skerrill—well, that just doesn’t cut it, does it?

  Because the name Greene had coughed up as Skerrill’s killer was mine.

  CHAPTER 4

  FIRST THE N.K.V.D., NOW THE BUREAU. THE RUSSIANS SUSPECTING I was lying about Himmel, that was bad, but the F.B.I. suspecting I’d killed Skerrill—that was worse. The Russians wanted to know what had happened to Himmel because they were chasing the dope on the weapons project in New Mexico. The Reds needed me as much as they distrusted me, but if the Bureau was convinced I had turned, gone Benedict Arnold, it would stop at nothing to prove I was guilty of treason. Hell, Hoover had a thick file on Eleanor Roosevelt—how much consideration would I get as a lowly officer? Didn’t matter a lick that my undercover work had busted up Himmel’s spy ring, Slater was out to get me, for sure.

  As mammoth as my problems were, making sure the kid from the Automat was safe was my first concern, but I couldn’t do anything until I was free to leave my desk. The afternoon dripped by like a leaky faucet. I stared at the telephone, willing it to ring—at least nutters prattling on would speed up the clock. No such luck; I had to sweat out the afternoon in silence.

  At four o’clock I stubbed my umpteenth Lucky of the day, donned my hat, and skedaddled. The kid, the kid, I kept telling myself, practically muttering the words like a mantra. I had to make sure he was safe. A lot of time had passed since that night at the Automat, probably the kid didn’t work there anymore. That thought cheered me. Who would remember who had worked in the kitchen a particular night months ago? I doubted Shovel-face and his sidekick would do more than ask an employee or two a couple of questions. I didn’t see how they could get at the Automat’s old timesheets, didn’t think they’d even try. And if the kid still worked at the Automat, I could take him aside, coach him, convince him if the two Russians came around, he’d need to avoid them at all costs, even if it meant ditching a shift. No way I could turn him into an Olympian liar, one capable of fooling veteran Soviet agents.

  Instinct told me to keep my head down, my appearance nondescript, so I changed into civvies: gray trousers, white oxford, no tie. The Automat was hopping, a dozen people lined up to get nickels from the cashier, a girl who looked no older than fourteen. One nice thing you can say about war, it opens up lots of jobs for teens.

  When I reached the register, I said, “I’m looking for a kid who works in the kitchen, about your age, maybe a little older, has acne?”

  She pulled a face. “Ugh. You mean Kenny.”

  “Right, Kenny.”

  “He didn’t show up for his shift.”

  My stomach tensed. “When was he due in?”

  She shrugged. “Dunno. Two, I guess? God, I hope this gets him fired, he’s such a—”

  “Listen, where’s your manager, I gotta talk to him.”

  “No manager here.”

  “Who can I talk to?”

  “You could try the office.” She scribbled the number on a scrap of paper and handed it over.

  “It’s open on Saturdays?”

  “Til five.”

  I glanced at my watch: 4:43. I thanked her and left. Could be lots of reasons Kenny hadn’t shown up, I told myself. Maybe his bike got a flat. Maybe his mother was sick. Maybe he found a better job and hadn’t bothered to call in to quit. I fired up a cigarette to calm my nerves—didn’t help.

  I crossed F Street and entered the Peoples Drug Store, beelined for the telephone booths in the back. Dropped my nickel, called the number.

  “Horn and Hardart, how may I help you?” a perky female voice asked.

  “This is Sergeant First Class George Litton, U.S. Army,” I said officiously. “I’m trying to get ahold’a one of your employees at the F Street Automat.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I only have his Christian name, ma’am, it’s Kenny, he’s about seventeen, works in the kitchen.”

  “He’s not in trouble, is he?”

  “Oh no, ma’am, he came into a recruiting station but forgot to give us his last name. Need to get it and his address so we can talk to him some more.”

  “Okay. Can you hold for a moment?”

  “Sure.”

  She was back on the line within two minutes. “Okay, Sergeant, Kenny’s family name is Newhurst, and he lives at 134 Randolph Place, Northwest.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I hung up, left the drugstore, flagged a hack. I could ring the Newhursts, but what good would that do? A stranger calls, asks about their son—they’d clam up tight. I needed to find Kenny pronto, and there was still a chance he was home. He might have mixed up his schedule, or maybe he broke his arm climbing a tree and was getting a cast at the hospital. And if he wasn’t home—my mouth went dry just thinking about what that might mean—I needed to know when his folks had last seen him.

  Randolph Place was just two blocks long, lined with three-story row houses with high front porches, bay windows, and mansard roofs. The Newhursts had whitewashed their front steps; petunias and tulips brightened a tiny flower bed. I came up the steps, knocked on the screen door. The other door was open, a news announcer’s voice on an unseen radio.

  “Just a moment,” a woman called. A moment later, she came thumping down the stairs and peered at me through the screen. Slender, late thirties, a redhead, her fashionable permanent framing a pretty face. She smiled uncertainly, giving the stranger on her threshold the benefit of the doubt. “Yes?” she asked.

  “Missus Newhurst?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is William Brady, I work for your son’s employer, Horn and Hardart. May I talk to you and your husband?” I cursed myself for being such a coward, but I couldn’t use my real name without compromising the investigation of the Russians.

  “Please, come in.”
/>   I followed her into the parlor.

  “Lyle’s not home, he’s at the golf course,” she said, beckoning for me to sit in an upholstered armchair. “May I offer you something to drink? Iced tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  I nodded and she settled into the sofa, directly across from me. She wore white Capri pants and a light blue blouse with short sleeves. Light touch with the makeup, just a press of lipstick and a dab of mascara. Magazines were fanned like a winning hand of poker on the coffee table between us, the cut glass ashtray was spotless. The radio, still on, was prewar but looked brand new, an Admiral housed in a walnut cabinet. On the wall, framed pictures of the Newhursts on outings with their son.

  “What did you want to speak with me about, Mister Brady?”

  “Missus Newhurst, did your son leave to go to work today?”

  “Of course. He isn’t there?” Trace of alarm.

  “No, ma’am, he didn’t come in. How does he get to the Automat?”

  “He takes the Sixth Street trolley. I don’t understand, Kenny’s never late, he’s never missed a shift.”

  “Yes, he’s a model employee.”

  She nodded, barely hearing me as the logical question hit her: Why hadn’t someone from the Automat called at two to ask where Kenny was?

  “The thing is, Missus Newhurst, Kenny wasn’t supposed to come to the Automat today at two—I’d arranged for him to meet me at our company office.”

  “Why?”

  “Kenny called yesterday to tell us about theft at the F Street location. I asked him to meet me to tell me about it.”

  “Theft? What kind of theft?”

  “Some employees are skimming the registers. Who it is we don’t know, we’re hoping Kenny could tell us.”

  The color drained from her face. “My God, it’s past five, he’s been missing over three hours, I should call the police.”

  I silently berated myself again. We had no time for the cops—I needed to get out of there to look for Kenny.

  “Now, there’s no need to panic, Missus Newhurst. What I think is, Kenny’s just a little nervous, that’s all. He did the right thing, of course, by telling us about the theft, but the schoolyard code is awful strong. I’m sure he’s just having second thoughts about talking to me. He’s probably at the park with friends or at a movie.”

  “That’s not like Kenny at all,” she said firmly. “He wouldn’t not go to work or miss a meeting with a boss and just go off with his friends.”

  “Tell you what, Missus Newhurst, why don’t we wait for Kenny to come home and take it from there? Maybe you could call some of his friends, see if he’s with them. In the meantime, I’ll—”

  “Did you change Kenny’s shift?” she interrupted with urgency.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you tell the Automat he’d be in later, after your meeting—like three or four o’clock?”

  “Well, yes—I mean, I had my secretary change his start time so we wouldn’t tip anyone off about what he was doing.”

  “Maybe he’s there now. Maybe you’re right, he had second thoughts about talking to you, but he still went to work. Yes, I’m sure that’s it.” She stood and strode to the telephone stand in the hallway.

  Keep it simple, always. I’d broken this ironclad rule with my hastily spun lies about theft and “William Brady.” Now I was flailing to protect a worthless cover story. As Kenny’s mother flipped through the directory, I said, “It’s best if you don’t mention I’m here, Missus Newhurst—we don’t want the thieves to put two and two together.”

  She didn’t acknowledge me and began dialing. “Yes, hello, this is Georgette Newhurst, Kenny’s mother—is he there?” She sucked in her breath at the answer. “When was he due in?” At this answer, she looked sharply at me. “I see. Well, when he comes in, have him call home immediately.” She enunciated her telephone number and asked the clerk to repeat it back before hanging up.

  “They said he was due in at two, Mister Brady.”

  “Only the kitchen staff know Kenny was due in at four, Missus Newhurst, and the telephone’s in the office on F Street. Whoever answered wouldn’t know about his changed shift.”

  “How could they not? Why isn’t Kenny there?”

  I had to get out of there—too late, I realized I should never have come. I’d whipped Georgette into frenzied fear, and I’d squandered precious time. Believing that Kenny was at home had been a subconscious attempt to dodge the consequences of my actions. But if I acted immediately, I might not be too late.

  Standing, I said, “I’m gonna drive straight to my office and see if Kenny came in while I was here. You call his friends, like I said, okay, Missus Newhurst? I’m sure one of us will find out where he is. I’ll call you when I get there, okay?”

  She nodded uncertainly. “You’ll call as soon as you can?”

  “Absolutely, Missus Newhurst.” Hoping lightning wouldn’t strike me dead for this last lie.

  “All right, I’ll call his friends.”

  “Yes, you do that, I’ll show myself out.” I clipped down the front steps and walked briskly away without looking back. If I’d been the praying sort, I would have begged God to give me back the lost time so I could ensure that everything the Newhursts had—a lovely home, a good son, happy lives—would remain theirs.

  CHAPTER 5

  IT TOOK AN ETERNITY, IT SEEMED, TO FLAG A HACK. I TOLD HIM TO drop me off at Tenth and E, SW. To my relief, he didn’t try to strike up a conversation. I tried to distract myself by looking at the businesses lining Sixth Street. An array of cafeterias, launderers, and cobblers with colorful signs rolled by, but I kept seeing Kenny’s mother’s anxious face. By now, she’d called her son’s friends—none had seen Kenny. She’d called her husband’s golf club and left a message for him to come home immediately. She’d called the Automat again, this time telling whoever answered that “William Brady” of Horn and Hardart was also looking for Kenny. And when she’d heard “Who’s William Brady?” she’d hung up, dialed zero, and cried at the operator to call the police. Georgette Newhurst seemed pretty sharp, she’d remember my face, my voice, my story; she’d tell all to the cops. They’d take her seriously, too. A teenage boy missing for three hours was an eye-roller, but a possible kidnapping? City detectives were likely on their way to 134 Randolph Place.

  But I couldn’t worry about all that at the moment. Find Kenny, fix this, I told myself. The hack turned onto E Street and stopped at the curb. I paid him, watched him drive off, and crossed the street. The empty factory where I’d been questioned the night before was located in a wedge-shaped lot between Ninth Avenue and Maine Avenue, which ran along the Washington Channel. Bringing Kenny to this location was risky—it was daylight, someone might see them entering the building; the Harbor Patrol Station was just blocks away—but N.K.V.D. agents were like stray cats, they had habits, they had hideaways, and once they found a protected nook, they came back. The sun beat down, but tough questions sweated me as much as the heat. Had they posted a guard? Could I get close enough to observe? How was I going to look in—the windows were high, narrow, dirty. What if the Russians had taken Kenny elsewhere?

  I approached from the north. The night before, I’d knocked on the south entrance, per the coded instructions in the classifieds. Shovel-face had let me in, leading me through a small front office to the shop floor. Built to fit the triangular lot, the factory was widest at the rear. There had to be a loading dock, a coal bin lid, another door. But if the owners hadn’t locked down every ingress when they left, the Russians probably had.

  The alley behind the factory was cobbled and weed choked. A brick warehouse abutted the alley, but its dock was empty, bays shuttered; work had stopped for the day. No sign of a sentry, so I trod lightly up a set of grated steps to the factory dock and surveyed my options. None looked promising. The loading doors were behemoths, ten feet high and sheathed in riveted metal panels—even if they were un
latched, they’d heave and creak at the first tug. I tried the handle of a regular-sized wooden door on the left side, but it was locked. No windows on this side.

  Then I remembered the vents on the roof. During my interrogation, I’d noticed a row of fans set into circular casings with tin-plated, pointed rain guards. Could I see through those shafts if I could find a way onto the roof? I wasn’t so lucky as to spot a ladder on the warehouse dock, but a wooden pallet I retrieved from the alley made a nice substitute. I leaned it against the west wall, clambered up, and pulled myself up using an eave bracket. The roof was flat and tar-papered. I unlaced my brogans and took them off. In a crouch, I crept toward the rear fan, which offered a decent sight line to the factory floor.

  What I saw turned my stomach. Kenny was lashed tight to the same chair I’d sat on. Shovel-face stood in front, his partner behind. The boy’s nose was bleeding, his right eye was swollen shut.

  “What did the old man look like?” Shovel-face demanded.

  “Jes’ an old man, told you,” Kenny said thickly, sobbing, his shoulders heaving. “Please stop.”

  Shovel-face slapped him across the cheek. “Was he thin, was he fat, tall or short? If you tell us, we will let you go. Otherwise …”

  I backed away and ran across the roof as lightly as I could. Scrambled down the pallet, panting on the dock as I pulled on my shoes, my hands shaking. How was I going to get Kenny out of there? I was alone, without a weapon, no time to call for help.

  I raced from the dock to the factory’s front door, its small window papered over. Yanked on the handle—locked. Pounding on the metal door I shouted, “Police! Open up, you’re trespassing, come out now!” I moved to the side and planted my feet, hoping that Shovel-face would want to talk his way out, that he’d say he was the new owner or was an inspector—as long as he unbolted the lock and cracked the door. The moment he did, I’d hurtle in, leading with my shoulder. Knock him down, seize his weapon. Shoot him, then his partner. Untie Kenny, get him out of there. Odds I could pull it off, ten to one. But I had no choice except to try.