by Gene P. Abel
Examination
Professor Stein made a point of searching around the bin, perhaps more thoroughly than he needed to, more to minimize contact with the dead body than anything else, leaving that job to Agent Hessman. Meanwhile Captain Beck and Dr. Weiss cleaned up any sign that might even suggest the presence of someone from another time.
Claire, however, was only too eager to be observing Agent Hessman’s examination. “An actual dead body to examine,” she remarked with obvious enthusiasm. “That’s always great for the story. I mean, I’m sorry that a man was killed and all, but the story—which has me wondering exactly what sort of story this all is leading to. What could be so important that this man was willing to die for it?”
“We’ll know in a minute,” Agent Hessman muttered.
Captain Beck glanced over and saw the reporter bending in closer as Agent Hessman searched the body, and knew his cue. He hurried over and gently pulled Claire away with a quiet word. “Why don’t you leave Lou to his work and help out Ben, will you? There’s a lot of area around that bin to search.”
“What? Think a woman is too delicate to be around a dead body? I’m here for my story, and that body is the story. Now I will not—”
“Miss Hill, I do not think you are too delicate in the least; far from it, in fact. And you will have your story as soon as we figure out what’s going on.”
“Then why—”
In a rush to appease Miss Hill’s curiosity but keep her away from anything she shouldn’t see, Captain Beck used the first story that came to mind.
“Because our companion Ben is too delicate to be around dead bodies.”
“What? How is that possible? The war—”
“Ben wasn’t in the war,” Captain Beck answered truthfully. “He was . . . teaching at a university the entire time.”
“A man of letters? I figured him as a consultant of some sort, but . . . so he’s never been outside the university before?”
“This would be his first . . . mission in the field, yes. Now, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
“Oh, sure,” she said, with a brief cough. “But if you find anything—”
“We’ll let you know, Miss Hill.”
Captain Beck watched as Claire walked over to where Professor Stein was searching; then he gave a brief sigh of relief and squatted down beside Agent Hessman. “I got our reporter occupied with something else,” the captain whispered to him, “in case this guy has some items on him that no one in this time should see.”
“Good,” the agent answered, “because I’ve already found one suspiciously modern-looking device that could be their equivalent of one of our beacons. As for what else I’ve found . . .”
While the pair conversed in low tones, Professor Stein emerged from the backside of the bin to nearly bump straight into Claire’s knees as he was bent over searching the ground. Looking up, he saw what might be described as a stern beauty; her pretty facial features were twisted into the sort of look a school matron might give a disobedient student caught in the act. Seeing her with her hands on her hips and elbows akimbo, he wasn’t sure whether to admire her or swallow that lump he felt suddenly form in his throat.
“You’re a strange one, Ben. Robert just told me how you’d never been in the war.”
“Well, yes, that’s true, but it’s not because I was—”
“You could have just said you were an academic. I’d have understood.”
“Well, I guess I couldn’t be sure if—I mean . . .”
He had straightened up to face her, unsure which way to take this story, when Claire gave her opinion. “As much as some might have wanted to pitch in, academics and intellectuals have no place on the battlefield. Just get themselves killed.”
“That was . . . much what I was thinking, yes,” he admitted hesitantly.
“Which is why it’s so puzzling. Why then are you out here now on what could be a very dangerous mission? One man’s already been killed.”
“I . . . that is . . . this mission is simply too important.”
“More important than the Great War?”
“You have no idea. Listen, I can’t talk about it—that would be up to Lou—but just know that I’m not a coward. At least I don’t think so. It’s just that the circumstances of my life never led me into war. Beyond that, I’m afraid I can’t say anything more.”
She looked at him for a moment longer, studying him as if perhaps he might be the story she sought more so than the dead body. “You’re not lying,” she said. “I’d know it if you were. But you’re not telling the full truth either. There’s something more.”
Her ruminations were interrupted by two things—a cough escaping her lips and a call from Agent Hessman. “Ben, I need you to look at this.”
Only too grateful for the interruption, he hurried over to where Agent Hessman was standing up holding something, Captain Beck beside him, and now Dr. Weiss coming over to join them as well.
“What’d you find?” Professor Stein asked quietly once he had joined the group.
Agent Hessman held up a picture, but one out of step with the current time. The old picture was printed on paper far more modern than anything the year 1919 had. It was a picture of a Japanese gentleman in uniform, and on the back were printed the words “General Hideki Tojo.”
“Their mission would seem to involve this man,” Agent Hessman stated while Professor Stein examined the photo. “What do you know of such a person?”
“Wow,” was all Professor Stein said at first. “Tojo himself. They certainly aim big.”
“You know of him?” Dr. Weiss asked.
“Any hist—anyone in my field would. He’s the one who ordered the bombing of Pearl Harbor and was responsible for the campaign of horrors the Japanese instigated on their prisoners of war. Or at least he will be in a few years. You think he’s their target?”
“Got to be,” Agent Hessman stated. “But the problem is, what would they want with him?”
“Wait, what bombing of Pearl Harbor? I would have heard of something like that. What do you guys know?”
That’s when they all remembered that not only was Miss Claire Hill still present but she apparently now stood within hearing range and was not afraid to remind them of that fact. Professor Stein looked over to discover that she had followed along behind him and was not much farther than an arm’s length away. For a moment he was flustered, trying to think of what to say. Then Agent Hessman spoke up and flashed the picture in her direction. “Tell me what you know, Miss Hill. What have you heard about a Japanese man named Tojo? This is important.”
She took the photo, studying it for a moment before replying. “I’d love to know what photographic paper you guys used for this. Tojo, hmm . . . some sort of dignitary from Japan. Not a general, but—”
“So he’s here? In America?” Agent Hessman asked.
“Yes, but I couldn’t say why. Something all hush-hush.” She handed the photo back and continued thinking aloud. “But it’s something to do with a meeting of some sort, not a Japanese cultural house.”
“That may be something the Japanese team didn’t know,” Dr. Weiss suggested.
“Agreed,” Agent Hessman said. “This was their first best guess as to where to find him. Well done, Claire.”
“Thanks, but this brings up a few questions,” she shot back. “Like, why would a team from Japan not know where their own dignitary is staying? Are they assassins or something? What is it that you guys aren’t telling me?”
“Easy there, Claire,” Professor Stein said, interposing himself between her and the others. “You know about as much of this as we do right now. We said before that we don’t really know what their mission is, only that it’s not good.”
“Again, while you’re not lying, you’re still leaving something out. What is it you aren’t tellin
g me?”
For a moment their gazes met, hers a look of determination rare for anyone of this century or even his own, his a curious mix of emotions he wasn’t sure of himself. Their moment, however, was interrupted by Harris and Phelps jogging back into the courtyard from the alley.
“We lost them at Times Square,” Agent Harris announced as they rejoined the others. “They split up, so we thought it best to just come back. You find anything on the body?”
“A clue.” Agent Hessman held up the photo. “They’re after this man. He’ll be at a meeting somewhere.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down much,” Agent Harris noted.
“Doesn’t it?” Agent Hessman pocketed the photo as he explained. “We know that meeting’s in New York City, or the Japanese team wouldn’t be here. And if he’s an important dignitary, the meeting he’ll be at will be one with other important dignitaries. Something with quite a bit of security around it.”
“Then what do we do next?” Dr. Weiss asked.
“Next?” Claire put in. “There’s a body here. We’re going to have to call in the police.”
“Sue,” Agent Hessman said, ignoring Claire’s small outburst, “you lost them at Times Square, so that’s where we go next.”
Agent Harris nodded in acknowledgement. Then, as Claire was saying, “But the body—” Agent Hessman shot a glance to Professor Stein, who made a point of drawing her away by the shoulders to talk to her a few feet away, maneuvering her so that her back was to the body.
“Claire, we’ll need your help on this. You’re a native of New York City, we aren’t, and Times Square can be a very confusing and crowded place . . .”
Meanwhile Agent Hessman bent down and ran a hand inside the dead man’s coat, producing what he had found earlier, the device he had determined to be their beacon, fashioned to look like some decorative medallion with a large red stone in the center. Working quickly while Professor Stein talked to Claire, he placed it directly on the body’s chest, slapped a hand to the red stone, and jumped back.
A dim glow rose up from within the body, quickly eating away from within it, the body falling away into glowing embers that were sucked into the red stone until all that was left was the beacon itself, hovering for a moment inches above the ground. Then a final flash and the beacon folded in on itself, gone into a point of light, then nothing.
“As much as I know a meeting with the police will slow things down,” Claire was saying as she turned around to face the others, “we can’t just leave—where’d it go?”
“Where’d what go, Claire?” Dr. Weiss asked.
“The body, of course.”
“Gone,” was all Agent Hessman would say. “Now let’s get moving.”
“But to where?” she asked. “And will anyone find it? And how’d you move it so quickly? My back was turned for just a moment.”
But no matter how determined her questions or how much she glared at Professor Stein, no answer would be forthcoming. They left with Agent Harris in the lead to guide them along the route to Times Square, none of them speaking another word about the body.
13
Tracking
They surveyed the situation from one end of Times Square, Agent Hessman’s penetrating gaze absorbing every detail, while Agent Harris indicated the directions she had seen the Japanese team split up into. Even now, a century in their past, Times Square was a surging sea of bodies and vehicles, although gas-powered mixed with horse-drawn in 1919, while a thousand pairs of feet negotiated the walkways along and across streets.
Agent Hessman stated the obvious conclusion: “This is a tracker’s nightmare. They picked the perfect place to split up.”
“You ought to catch this place when everyone gets off from work,” Claire remarked. “If you were hoping for any clues, you’ll never find them in this place.”
“I think I quite agree with the young reporter,” Agent Hessman remarked absently, still searching the area. “Which is why we need some—ah, perfect.” He broke into a jog, weaving through the moving crowd, with the others behind him wondering what he had spotted. When they emerged from the crowd, beaming a straight line for a sidewalk newsstand, Agent Hessman’s intent became clear.
“Excuse me,” he said to the man in the newsstand, “but have you seen any Japanese men running or hurrying away from this area in the last few minutes?”
“That depends,” the man stated flatly. “Were you going to buy something? I make my living selling papers, not answering questions.”
Captain Beck reached into a pocket and pulled out a coin from his supply of period money to slap down on the wooden counter. He then took a copy of the nearest newspaper.
“Group of them,” the newsstand man then replied. “Looked like they was running from someone, then split up.”
“Could you tell us where they went?” Agent Hessman asked.
“Another question, another paper,” the man stated.
This time it was Agent Hessman who produced the coin, but he kept his hand on it as he looked the man in the eye. “A paper a question, okay; then here’s my one question. What are each of the directions those Japanese men ran to?”
The man grinned in reply, actually chuckling as he pulled out one of the papers himself to hand to Agent Hessman. “You got me there. Guess it’s only the one additional paper at that. Okay, the first one headed over that way, and . . .” He pointed to each of the directions he had seen the Japanese men depart, Agent Hessman noting each carefully in turn before releasing his coin into the man’s care, taking the offered paper, and leading the group away to some relative privacy.
“Miss Hill,” Agent Hessman asked, “what can you tell us about what’s in each of those directions?”
“Hmm . . .” Claire looked out across Times Square, trying to picture the five different courses. “There’s a couple of theaters in that direction . . . some manufacturing over there . . . I think the wharf is in that direction if you go far enough . . . Central Park would be over in that direction . . .”
“That’s got to be it,” Agent Hessman said. “What better place for a team to reassemble than Central Park? Easy to locate and get to, yet big enough they could easily lose themselves in there. Good job, Claire. How far is it?”
“There’s a streetcar we could hop that would have us there in no time,” she said. “This way.”
She led them in a brisk walk a little way down the street, Professor Stein coming up to walk alongside her, the rest staying close. “The one advantage of Times Square,” she was saying, “is that you can catch a trolley here to just about anywhere in town. Horse-drawn, electric, whatever’s your preference.”
“Quickest one, I would think,” Professor Stein told her.
“Then this one should do it,” Claire said.
She led them to a trolley stop where a nearly empty horse-drawn streetcar was coming to a pause. Agent Hessman produced a bill of 1919 currency to cover them all and led the way on board. Agent Harris was last on board, keeping a sharp eye out for any threats to her team. Then she spotted it.
A man in the crowd pulled out a pistol that caught her eye, both for the type of gun it was and the direction it was aimed.
“Down!” To her cry, everyone flattened themselves to the floor of the trolley car, Agent Harris diving in just as the shot rang out. A second shot also missed but spooked the horse into a premature run while passengers and pedestrians screamed and dove for cover. Agent Harris barely pulled her feet in as the trolley got off to a sudden start. She took Lieutenant Phelps’s offered hand to get to her feet.
“Sue?” Agent Hessman questioned.
“Man with a pistol,” she said as she stepped over beside him. “Only, while the gun looks period to the untrained eye, it didn’t come out until 1930.”
“Looks like one of their team found us,” Captain Beck stated.
>
“Yeah, except that the man’s not Japanese. I’ll need to look through your record book to identify him, but I’d say we have another player in this game.”
The shooter hopped onto another streetcar heading out ahead of them, a gun that should not yet exist held tightly in his hand.
14
Trolley Chase
The horse-drawn trolley held the seven of them, plus a young couple at the back, as well as the driver. The shooter had hopped onto an electric streetcar headed in the same direction but ahead of them and crowded with bystanders gasping at the man with the gun. The driver of their trolley had pulled the gun-spooked horses down to a more sedate pace when Lieutenant Phelps leaped into the seat next to him and glared at him.
“Follow that trolley, and hurry.”
Something about the large man’s tone and the amount of muscle he was flexing spurred the driver into instant agreement. With a flick of the reigns and a sharp cry, he sped up the trolley.
“Robert,” Agent Hessman snapped, “that derringer of yours—”
“Not enough range,” the captain answered.
“Just get me close enough and I’ll break the hand holding that gun,” Agent Harris vowed.
A jingle signaled the trolley’s approach to its next stop, but much to the surprise of those waiting there, the trolley did not even pause. Not under the constant urging of Lieutenant Phelps. It raced on by, closing in on the streetcar as another shot spat out, this time aimed at Phelps. The bullet glanced off the frame of the speeding trolley, and nearly everyone ducked. The driver had nowhere to duck to, and the couple in the back were too occupied with one another to notice anything but each other’s lips.
“Get us closer to that thing,” Lieutenant Phelps urged the driver.
“That’s an electric streetcar,” the man began. “I can’t—”
“And you have a pair of horses that can go faster, so do it!”
Another cry to the pair of horses, and Manhattan saw a trolley giving chase to a streetcar and actually catching up to it. At least until they came to the next intersection, where the man with the gun jumped off the streetcar and onto another moving behind it on a perpendicular course.
