Man With Two Faces

by Don Swaim

  “And you don’t know which pavilion?”

  “Heinz only said it’ll be pip-pip and cheerio, old chap.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Tokee. He told you exactly which one.”

  “Huh?”

  “The British Pavilion, of course.”

  Diana was always the smarter of the two of us. And often the most dauntless. Of course, she carried a blowgun with darts garnished by Kyle’s venom while I only packed a piece.

  I said, “We ought to tell the cops.”

  “So unlike you, Tokee.” She wadded her used napkin and tossed it with precision into a trash can. “Your informant may not be reliable, and if we go to the police, your cover as Rolfe Schenk might be blown. Absolutely not. We’ll handle it ourselves.”

  “But, dollface, the two of us staking out the British Pavilion, late, the fair practically deserted? The building’s too big. The Nazis could go to the front or back. The logistics are impossible.”

  “Vladimir Zworykin will help us. We’ll set up his cameras focusing on the pavilion, on all sides, and we’ll monitor the images on TRK-12s. When the Nazis come, or if, we’ll see them, they won’t see us.”

  “Diana…”

  “Don’t thank me, Tokee, just raid that arsenal of yours and arm us well. It may take more than my blowgun.”

  “I’ll get to work on it tomorrow, dollface, but tonight I have a surprise for you. Oh, and here she comes now. Diana, meet Bathsheba.”

  That night, in her penthouse, as Diana and Bathsheba clung to one another, Diana cautioned me.

  “You may only look, Tokol. Right now, Bathsheba’s all mine.”

  Kyle and I watched, and while I couldn’t get into the head of a king cobra, I guessed we both liked what we saw.

  The following morning, back at the Fair, I went into action, enlisting the aid of Electro and his mechanical dog Sparko. Electro was seven feet tall, weighed two-hundred-sixty-five pounds, and while slow on his metallic feet, he wasn’t one to mess with. His aluminum carcass concealed a system of photoelectric cells, telephone relays, vacuum tubes, camshafts, gears, and motors—and he reacted to voice commands. Sparko could bark, sit up, beg, and bite.

  For his powerful synthesized voice, AT&T’s Pedro the Voder was also deputized. All it took to prompt Pedro to speak was pressing the keys and foot pedals on a typewriter-like console. The Voder could even sing “Auld Lang Syne.”

  Two buildings made up the British Pavilion, separated by a narrow thoroughfare. In the main building, the Lincoln Cathedral’s copy of the Magna Charta was protected in a bulletproof glass case, replicas of the Crown jewels sparkled in the Royal Room, and in the Silver Room the Royal Mint’s coins and medals were displayed in metallic magnificence.

  But I suspected the Nazis wanted to make a point more than theft.

  When Tuesday night came, the cameras in position, Diana, Vlad, and I studied the screens at the RCA Pavilion’s bank of receivers. Electro and Sparko were stationed in the rear, hidden motionless in the shadows. The good thing about robots was that they were patient, rarely complained, and never needed to piss. We had also set up a loudspeaker system and Klieg lights, which could be activated remotely.

  Vlad first spotted the culprits on the monitors. Five of them dressed in wetsuits, which led me to believe they avoided gate security and infiltrated the fairgrounds by swimming from the Bay through Flushing Creek. Ah, Teutonic ingenuity. As expected, they went directly to the British Pavilion, two going to the rear, the other three remaining in front.

  They got right to work, removing obvious explosive materials from their rucksacks.

  At the key moment, we switched on the Kliegs, while by loudspeaker I ordered Electro to attack and Sparko to sic ’em. Diana and I, armed with Model 1928A1 45-caliber Thompson submachine guns, converged on the pavilion, firing into the air. Startled by the light and noise and the attack of a giant robot and metallic dog, the Nazis were caught by surprise before they could light a single fuse. Operated by Vlad, the machine with the human voice, Pedro the Voder, boomed, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST. DO NOT MOVE.”

  As they cowered, hands in the air, the boxheads begged, “Don’t shoot, bitte, don’t shoot.”

  So much for the master race.

  Alerted by the brouhaha, the fair’s security guards rushed to the pavilion, taking the Nazis into custody, while Diana and I quietly retreated to the shadows. With the recovery of the bomb-making paraphernalia, there was evidence galore to send the saboteurs up the river.

  “Our work here is done,” I solemnly proclaimed to Vlad and Diana.

  “Oh, shush, Tokee, darling,” Diana said as she popped a kiss on my cheek.

  But there remained the little matter of Fritz Kuhn.

  In addition to everything else, I remained cursed by The Man With Two Faces, so close we had been in both life and death. Not just in the dark when Janus violently tarnished my dreams, but in daylight as I encountered the mundane that reminded me of his sandpaper cheek when he forgot to shave, the embarrassing laugh at inappropriate moments, the bottomless of his voice, and, ultimately, the murderous rage. I had heard it said that a man truly had but one close friend in his entire life. Janus had been that friend—until he marked me for death.

  But he could no longer threaten me.

  Could he?

  Understandably, the German American Bund was disconcerted by the arrests of five of their gunsels. I commiserated with Heinz Hinrichs as we pulled back innumerable ales at Rambacher’s Bierstube.

  “They were our best storm troopers,” Heinz said. “I do not understand how they could have been caught like that.”

  “Maybe we have a traitor among us.”

  “Nein. A good German is always true to his race.”

  “At least you weren’t with them, Heinz. The Bund can’t afford to lose you.”

  “You are a good freund, Rolfe. Unlike Fritz. Him I do not trust.”

  “You still think Kuhn is stealing from the Bund?”

  “I know because as head of security I have access to the Bund’s books, and I have seen where he has made fraudulent entries. I happen to know he stole nearly nine-thousand dollars from the rally at Madison Square Garden because I saw the original receipts. But the figures were altered in the books.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nichts. If I approached him directly he would have me fired and tortured. If I went to the Bund’s national officers, who he controls, he would have me fired, tortured, and shot. Dissension within the Bund is not taken lightly.”

  “I’ve got a brainstorm, Heinz. Why don’t I steal the books and give them to the right person, say Manhattan District Attorney Tom Dewey?”

  “The books are kept locked in the safe at Bund headquarters. Except for me, only Kuhn knows the combination.”

  “Give me the combination.”

  “If I do, Kuhn will know it was me and shoot me.”

  “Not if he thinks the combination was beaten out of you by, perhaps, a burglar who broke into Bund headquarters and left you tied to a chair. Kuhn may still shoot you, but not because he thought you gave him up.”

  It was a good plan.

  Hinrichs made it known to Kuhn that he would be working late that night on some sort of new security strategy for the Bund’s summer encampment.

  When Kuhn arrived in the morning, he found Room 5 in disarray, tables and chairs overturned, files strewn about, the safe door open, the ledgers gone, and Heinz gagged and tied to a chair, having been roughed up. As he was untied, Heinz explained that he and a masked burglar had surprised each other, but the intruder, obviously a Jew by the way he said mazel tov as he left, got the upper hand. Heinz had made his self-inflicted injuries look good. Too good. A black eye and a cracked cheekbone.

  The Bund’s books in hand, I made a beeline to the office of Thomas E. Dewey.

  Despite his cheesy little mustache, Tom had made a name for himself as a special prosecutor busting the rackets—especially after hitting the
jackpot: Lucky Luciano. Riding on a tide of popularity, Dewey moved into the Manhattan Criminal Courts building on Centre Street as district attorney, where he established a team of forensic accountants to investigate financial wrongdoing.

  He and I became acquaintances after meeting at a Republican fund raiser, I being a generous GOP contributor despite my New Deal proclivities. In my line, it helped to be accepted within all circles. I even played golf with Archbishop Spellman, who had the good grace to bless me even after I beat his divine ass four under par with two birdies and one eagle.

  Dewey was a confirmed New Yorker.

  “Tokol,” he said, “If you’re not in New York you’re camping out.”

  He had political ambitions, having once run for governor, defeated but unbowed. A presidential bid was not out of the question.

  It was in Dewey’s prosecutorial blood to go after Fritz Kuhn.

  As I sat across from him in his office, he said, “Where did you get these financial records, Tokol?”

  “They mysteriously arrived on my doorstep, like a baby delivered by a stork.”

  “I can’t use evidence I obtained unlawfully.”

  “You didn’t obtain the evidence unlawfully, Tom. Consider it a gift from a long-legged bird with a thick bill.”

  Dewey’s accountants picked through the Bund’s books line by line. Kuhn had failed to report $4,855 on sales of swastikas, armbands, Hitler coffee mugs, and other Bund crap to members, neglected declaring $8,907 from the MSG rally, siphoned off $4,424 from various Bund subsidiaries, plus misappropriating hundreds of dollars for himself and his mistress. All told, the embezzled funds amounted to $14,548.

  The grand jury indicted Kuhn, and a bench warrant was issued for his arrest.

  I got a frantic call from Heinz.

  “Rolfe, Fritz got wind of his indictment. He is downstairs right now loading his car, about to flee the city.”

  “Stop him.”

  “If I do, the Bund will know I was colluding against him.”

  “Then let the air out of his tires. I’ll be uptown in twenty minutes.”

  The traffic was impossible, and my taxi arrived seconds too late.

  “He fixed the flat and got away, Tokol,” Heinz said. “But you can catch him. Take my Studebaker Champion. He is driving a Ford V-8 sedan, New York license 3Y6974. From the Holland Tunnel he will use Route Twenty-Two to Krumsville, Pennsylvania.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  “Twenty miles west of Allentown. The Bund has supporters in the area, and he could hide out there indefinitely.”

  “But not after they find out he stole Bund funds.”

  “He will deny it. That it was a setup by Jew-loving Bolsheviks.”

  “Are you coming with me?”

  “I must stay here. It must not appear I had anything to do with this.”

  Kuhn managed to give me the slip. Apparently suspecting he might be followed, he must have turned off Route 22 to head west in a more circuitous route. I continued on to Krumsville, little more than a crossroad, with a single gas station, café, and motel collectively called Schlenker’s. Just in case, I drove well beyond it before turning around and heading back.

  I was filling the tank at Schlenker’s when a Ford V-8 sedan, New York license 3Y6974, pulled into the lot. Kuhn got out, and went into the café. Through the window I saw him eating bienestich and drinking kaffee.

  I blocked his car with the Studebaker, made a collect call from a payphone to Tom Dewey’s detectives, and waited. Encountering me as he left the café, Kuhn gaped in surprise, his tongue seeming about to break from its moorings. But he recovered faster than a fox. Although I was no longer wearing my icky Austrian corporal mustache, he recognized me.

  He said, “I would ask what you are doing here, but it is perfectly clear. You must be the traitor who broke into my office, subdued my security chief, and stole our financial ledgers. Is your name really Rolfe Schenk?”

  “I’m any name you’d like to call me, Fritz, and I’m sure you have a lot of them.”

  “Very funny, Mr. Schenk. You slay me—as you Americans say.”

  “That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about.”

  “I will wager you are not even German.”

  “They wouldn’t let me join the master race.”

  “No doubt you have sheeny blood. Those who are not of a sound genealogy in this world are mere chaff. All human culture—art, science, technology—are almost exclusively the creative product of the Aryan.”

  “Somebody should have told that to Einstein. Speaking of creative product, didn’t you know you were indicted by a grand jury in Manhattan?”

  “I had no idea.”

  “What are you doing in this dump instead of, say, standing before a judge for your arraignment?”

  “I, I am just passing through. I was headed to a Bund rally in Chicago, and I am about to open a Bund youth camp in Milwaukee. You cannot keep me here against my will. You have no authority, whoever you are, obviously not the police. And driving a Studebaker Champion, which looks like the one owned by Heinz Hinrichs.”

  “Yeah, I jacked it. Heinz will be mighty pissed when he finds out it’s gone. He’s probably still hurting from the whacking I gave him in your office.”

  “Stand aside. I will leave now.”

  I patted the convincer under my coat.

  “Why don’t the two of us stay here and keep each other company until the gumshoes from Tom Dewey’s office get here from Manhattan.”

  He spat. “Tom Dewey. And how is your friend Tom Dewey? Do not tell me. He is probably drinking gin with Walter Winchell at the Stork Club.”

  “I’ll say hi to both of them for you the next time I’m in the Cub Room, which will be just as soon as I return to civilization. In the meantime let’s put on our lederhosen and sing a few rounds of ‘The Hofbräuhaus Song.’”

  “You give me a pain in my belly.”

  “Really? Maybe my voodoo doll is working after all.”

  Kuhn pointed to a bench near the entrance to the café.

  “Since we may have a long wait, perhaps we may sit over there?”

  “Good idea, Fritz, I’d like to take the load off. Feels like I’ve been driving all day.”

  We sat. Kuhn, his head bobbing, appeared to doze off. I felt like nodding myself, and tried to resist. But, damn, I was bushed and, well, I conked out. But only for a moment, I swear, long enough, however, not to feel Fritz reaching into my pocket to extract the keys to Heinz’s Studebaker, which was still blocking Kuhn’s car.

  But I came alert as soon as I heard the Studebaker start up.

  Sonofabitch!

  As the car began to back up, I leaped from the bench to the car’s rear end, as if I could halt it like Superman. Instead, the back fender on the passenger’s side bumped me, knocking me on my ass. Kuhn braked the car, turned it, then drove straight at me. I rolled to safety just inches from the wheels as it roared past.

  Kuhn had the keys but not my trusty Smith and Wesson, which I whipped out, firing from a prone position through a plume of dust at the escaping car. One of the bullets caught the back tire on the driver’s side, and the Studebaker swerved out of control, leaving the road, and smashed into a white oak.

  When I caught up to Kuhn, he was hunched over the steering wheel, visibly shaken but otherwise appearing to be okay. I opened the door, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him to the ground.

  “Nazi prick,” I said, “you almost killed me.”

  “Alles hat ein Ende, nur die Wurst hat zwei,” he replied, which I took to mean, “Everything has an end, only the sausage has two.”

  Lucky for him that Dewey’s dicks arrived in time to take the Nazi loser off my hands. I had been about to inflict a beating that would impress even Kuhn’s hallowed Führer.

  Kuhn’s trial was a circus. His lawyer maintained that as Bund Fuehrer, he had the absolute right to squander the group’s money, even flushing it down the toilet if he chose. Love let
ters—to you my golden angel, I kiss your hands and everything—written by the married Kuhn to his paramour were introduced to show how he used Bund funds to bankroll his affair. Dewey and LaGuardia were called as witnesses by Kuhn’s lawyer, who claimed his client was being tried only because of their animus.

  Isadore Greenbaum, Diana, and I watched as the jury, after eight and a half hours, returned its verdict: guilty of five counts of grand larceny and forgery.

  Kuhn, stoic like a good German, was led to the Tombs to await sentencing as Greenbaum put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Tokol, when I headed the committee from the National Jewish Council to ask you to obliterate Fritz Kuhn, I wasn’t sure you could pull it off. But you exceeded our expectations.”

  “I had a great friend once, Isadore. Clarence Darrow. He told me that true patriotism hates injustice in its own land, and here we saw the Nazis at work in America. I had no choice.”

  Judge James Wallace gave Kuhn five years in Dannemora.

  The German American Bund went into decline after its most visible leader was put under lock and key. Even Americans of German stock could smell the odor of evil.

  Heinz Hinrichs made the wise decision to resign from the Bund.

  We met one last time at Schweinsteiger’s Rathskeller for a farewell drink or more.

  He said, “I guess I cannot call you Rolfe anymore, so whoever you are, every German in America owes you a measure of gratitude for bringing down a bad man.”

  “All Nazis are bad, Heinz, so you were right to quit the Bund.”

  “I even forgive you for wrecking my Studebaker.”

  “Technically, Kuhn did it. So the Bund will have to reimburse you.”

  “They won’t. Another reason I am leaving.”

  “To where?”

  “I am taking a job as a mechanical engineer at Grumman Aerospace in Bethpage.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What is the matter? Does that disturb you?”

  “It’s just that… You might be privy to vital aeronautics information of possible interest to the Nazis.”

  “Quite right. Skoal, if you will pardon my Viking.”

  The World’s Fair was about to wrap up its first season, so Diana and I celebrated at Le Restaurant du Pavilion de France. We toasted the fair, we toasted New York, we toasted ourselves. Yet a shadow hung over us with the world in violence and turmoil.