The Snake Flag Conspiracy

by The Snake Flag Conspiracy (fb2)

  "There!" she said proudly. "I think they'll fit close enough. Raymond's about your size."

  "Raymond?"

  "He's one of my roommates."

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  Julie shook her head disapprovingly at me. "Hey, where've you been? We just live together. All the colleges have coed dorms these days. Everybody lives with everybody else, but it doesn't mean everybody's screwing everybody! It's the same with us. We tried — three girls together. Man, I'll tell you, it's a drag! So when Barbara left, we asked Raymond if he wanted to take her place. It's better if there's a man around. He comes in handy when there's heavy work to be done. And we don't get hassled as much by guys who take us out on a date and then try to make it when they bring us home. I don't know if Raymond has eyes for Sheila or me, but his girl would kill him if he tried making a pass. She's the jealous type."

  "Okay," I said. "I get it." I started dressing. The shirt and slacks fit well enough. The shoes could have been half a size smaller. They were really half-boots with long rawhide laces.

  Julie looked me over when I was through dressing. "You'll do. Now, how were you planning on getting across town to Fields Corner?"

  "Subway or taxi."

  "I've got a Volks," she offered. "I'll drive you."

  I was going to say no, then I changed my mind. "Let's go," I said.

  * * *

  Grogan's is the kind of bar that Jimmy Breslin likes to write about. Its patrons are blue-collar, working Irish. Some of them work for the city, some of them can't find work, and some of them only work from time to time — at things the law frowns on. The place is paneled in mahogany gone dark from the years and the furniture wax rubbed into it by hand, and from the spillings of whiskey and beer and the countless wipings down with a wet cloth every few minutes. The strong smell of brew is in the air, ingrained in the wood of the booths and the tables and the floor. It's a man's place.

  At that time of morning there weren't many customers, so I spotted Reilly as soon as we walked in. He was sitting by himself in the middle booth along the righthand wall.

  I turned to Julie, slipping my arm around her shoulders. "How about keeping the motor warm? I won't be long."

  She glanced at Reilly, then back at me, and shrugged her slender shoulders. "Okay, but don't forget about me." She winked as she turned back to the door. "I'll be keeping my motor warm, too!"

  I gave Reilly a hopeful smile as I slid into the booth opposite him. "Do I owe you a bottle?"

  His pugnacious face was more irate than usual. "You owe me a hell of a lot more than a bottle!" he growled. He turned his head so I got a full view of the side of his face. His left eye was completely closed. Blood had scabbed along a savage cut that ran from his temple down his cheekbone. The left side of his mouth was badly swollen.

  "You want to tell me about that?" I asked.

  "Try to stop me from the telling," he replied. Reilly is third generation but he still has a touch of brogue. The Boston Irish hang onto it longer than their kinfolk anywhere else in the country. "Sweet Jesus, Nick! I knew I should never have gone along with you in the first place! Then I said to myself, what the hell, lookin' through the morgue for information doesn't seem like the most dangerous thing in the world, now does it? So I did. I spent the afternoon goin' through all the old clips. To tell the truth, I was lookin' forward to a cold glass of brew, it was so dry and dusty in there."

  "You found something," I said. "Otherwise, that wouldn't have happened." I pointed to his cheek.

  He shook his head. "I found nothing. Nothing, that is, except trouble on my way here."

  "When?"

  "About ten o'clock. Four of them. Big ones, they were, too."

  "Hoods?"

  He shook his head again. "You know better than that, Nick. There's not a punk in town with connections who doesn't know better than to leave me alone. No, my lad, these were a different breed. Too well dressed, for one thing. Not the right class, for another. There was something about them that tells me they don't belong in this neighborhood. And they didn't try to hold me up or anything. Just came right at me like they meant to finish me off. Didn't say a word. One of them caught me a good lick with a blackjack. That's how come I got this." He pointed at his swollen, split cheek. "I was lucky. I got away from them and started shooting. I don't think I hit any of them, but it was enough to throw a scare into them, so they took off running."

  He was almost embarrassed. "Four years I've had that gun and never once had to use it. I'm too well known, Nick. Now, it's like they don't care what happens if I get knocked off."

  "So it's not the Syndicate?"

  "Not unless they've gone clean out of their minds! And I doubt that! No, my boy, it was someone else's work."

  "What'd you find in the morgue?" I asked. "You must have found something or they wouldn't have gone after you."

  "Not a thing," he said ruefully. "Every one of those five men is a model upstanding citizen — about whom not much is written, I'll admit," — he flashed a trace of his old, cynical smile — "because of their influence. They've a lot of that, y'know."

  "What about Alexander Bradford?"

  "He's the most interesting of them all," Reilly said, his eyes locking into mine. "Why are you so interested in him alone now? How come not the others?"

  I shrugged noncommittally. "Just tell me about him."

  "Well," said Reilly, "he's old family — like the others. They all go back to the Mayflower, or maybe the second or third ship after it, at the latest. He's the only one left of his family. That's what's different about him. His father and mother both died when he was a child. He was brought up by his grand-aunt. Served in World War II. He was a lieutenant-colonel in an infantry outfit. He was captured by the Germans, spent a year in a prisoner of war camp…"

  "Hold it," I said. That was it. That was what I had been looking for. "Which stalag?"

  Reilly was puzzled. "What the hell difference does it make?"

  "Did you learn which camp?"

  Reilly looked at me as if I were a teacher accusing him of not having done his homework thoroughly. My question was an insult to a newspaperman as good as he was.

  Reilly mentioned the stalag number. And it fit. That particular stalag, I knew, was located in what is now the DDR. Deutche Democratische Republic. East Germany.

  "He was liberated by the Russians," I said. "Right?" Watching my face carefully, Reilly asked, "Is that a guess or do you know?"

  "I'll do some more guessing," I said, growing more and more certain of my hypothesis because it was the only way it could have happened, the only way the Russians could have made the swap. "He wasn't returned to the States right after he was liberated, right?"

  Reilly nodded. "Word came back that he was a hospital case. It took him almost a year to recuperate, first in a Russian hospital and then back here in the States at Walter Reed. There was a lot of surgery. For a time, they thought he might not pull through."

  "Plastic surgery?"

  "Some. Not much," said Reilly.

  "Just enough so that if someone who knew him before the war wondered about the difference in his appearance, the surgery would explain it."

  "You could say that," said Reilly.

  "No family? No relatives? Right?"

  "Just a grand-aunt, like I mentioned before," said Reilly. "She raised him, but she was very old by the time he returned from Germany."

  "So if he not only looked different, but acted differently, there'd really be nobody to notice it?"

  "Is that a question or a statement?" asked Reilly.

  "What do you think?"

  "I think you're trying to tell me something," Reilly observed, staring intently at me with a cold, inquisitive look in his eyes. "You think the Russians got their hands on him and brainwashed him. Is that it?"

  "Suppose they substituted another man for him, John? Suppose the original Alexander Bradford's been dead since 1945 and another man — a Russian, a KGB infiltrator, a 'plant' — has been
taking his place ever since?"

  "It could have happened that way," he admitted grudgingly.

  "It did happen that way, John."

  The expression on Reilly's face changed. Not irreverently, he whispered, "Holy Mother of God! That's a wild statement, Nick. Is that what this is all about? Are you trying to tell me that the men who came after me tonight are Russians?"

  "No, they're Americans. John, you know enough. Stay out of it now."

  "So that's the story you said I'd never be able to print," Reilly mused out loud. "You're right, m'lad. No one'd ever believe it! Not in this town! It'd be like trying to claim that the Pope, himself, is a Communist spy!"

  I slid out of the booth.

  Reilly reached out and caught me by the arm.

  "There's more to it, Nick, isn't there?"

  I nodded my head.

  "Can you tell me about it?"

  "No."

  "Later on? When it's over?"

  I smiled at him. "No way, John. Never. You've learned enough. Maybe too much for your own good."

  "Well," said Reilly, leaning back against the wooden partition between the booths, "take care of yourself, Nick."

  "You, too, John."

  I started to turn away when he suddenly reached forward across the corner of the table and fastened his hand on my arm.

  "Sit down, Nick!" The sudden urgency in his voice made me obey without questioning.

  "What's the matter, John?"

  "Two men just walked in the door." His voice was pitched low, barely reaching me.

  "You know them?"

  He shook his head, his eyes staring past me at them. "Not by name. But I know them alright. They're two of the men who tried to kill me earlier tonight. But I think you're the one they want now, laddie. They haven't taken their eyes off you since they came in."

  "Is there a back door to this place?"

  Before Reilly could answer, the front door of Grogan's swung open and Julie strolled in, impatiently jangling her car keys. She marched right over to our booth and slid in beside me.

  "I'm running out of gas," she announced, unsmiling.

  "You and John, here, were just leaving, sweetheart," I answered.

  Reilly knew what I meant. This was no place for Julie. I wanted him to take her out of the bar. And to get the hell out himself. One side of his face had already been smashed in because of me. He grinned crookedly and shook his head.

  "You two" — he pointed a chubby finger first at my chest, then Julie's — "go through the kitchen. Then up a flight of stairs. Don't go all the way to the top, though. The door to the roof hasn't been unlocked in years. Go down the hall to the end of the first floor. You'll find a window there. It opens out onto the fire escape. It'll take you to the roof. From there, you're on your own."

  He reached inside his coat and surreptitiously took out his revolver, sliding it under the table to me.

  "I think you'll be needing this more than I will."

  Cupped in my hand, muzzle up, the snub-nosed .38 gleamed brightly under the dark shadow of the table top. I looked down at it. Light reflected off the round chambers and from the trigger guard. The hole of its barrel gaped blackly at me. So did four of the chambers I could see into.

  "I appreciate the offer, John, but this thing won't do me any good…"

  Reilly frowned. "Since when will a gun not do…"

  "…unless you have cartridges to go with it, friend," I finished. "You fired all six of them."

  Reilly flushed with embarrassment. "Wait here a minute."

  For a heavy-set man, Reilly moved nimbly. He got to his feet and went across the room, motioning to the bartender to join him. The two of them conferred in whispers at the end of the bar. The barman went into the back room. Reilly drummed his fingers impatiently on the hard mahogany surface until the man came back.

  I put my arm around Julie's thin shoulders and put my head against hers. "Can you look around the end of the booth and take a gander at the two men Reilly was talking about?"

  Julie turned her head casually, looked around and then turned back to me. "I saw them," she said.

  "What do they look like?"

  "They're in their late twenties, maybe early thirties. One's about five-ten, the other's a little taller. Musclemen. They're standing at the end of the bar near the door looking this way. They give me the shivers. Real bad vibes, if you dig what I mean!"

  Reilly came back and slid into the booth again. He said quietly, "It's taken care of, Nick. As soon as the action begins, get the hell out of here."

  He passed me a small cardboard box. "Thirty-eights," he said. "A favor from a friend of mine."

  The bartender went over to a group of three men talking together at the middle of the bar. They looked like regular customers. Work shirts and high-laced work boots. He spoke briefly to them. They looked quickly at the two newcomers and nodded. The bartender moved off.

  I put the cartridges in my pocket along with the .38 revolver. This was no place to load it.

  "Give the man my thanks, John."

  "Just buy me another bottle," Reilly said sourly. He touched his split cheek gingerly. "How many do you owe me now?" That was the thing about Reilly. He always talked about buying the bottle, but he never drank anything harder than beer.

  I never got a chance to answer. Halfway down the bar one of the three drinkers — a short, square-set middle-aged man — pushed aside his beer glass and strode pugnaciously toward the two men at the end of the bar.

  "What'd you say about this place?" he demanded in a loud voice. "If you don't like it here, get the hell out!"

  The two men straightened up. One said in surprise, "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "I heard you! You come into a place like this and make remarks about it! If it ain't good enough for you, then get the hell out!"

  "Look," said the other placatingly, "whatever we were talking about, it wasn't that."

  "You're calling me a liar?"

  "For Christ's sake…"

  I heard the crash of a beer bottle being smashed against the bar and the sudden shout, "Duck, Charlie!"

  Reilly leaned forward. "Now, Nick! On your way!"

  Julie and I scooted out of the booth and made a run for the kitchen. Behind us there was the crash of a table being overturned and more shouting. As we went through the swinging door to the kitchen, I took a quick look behind me. The short middle-aged man had been joined by his two drinking friends. Those three and the two on my tail were throwing punches at each other.

  Someone shouted, "They're getting away, Charlie!"

  Charlie tried to break free of the fight. He made it to the end of the bar. The barman rapped him with a sawed-off billiard cue and he went down.

  Then the swinging door slammed behind us, and Julie and I were racing through the kitchen. The door at the back of the steamy white-tiled room opened onto a hallway barely illuminated by a twenty-five watt bulb hanging naked on the end of a black electrical cord. We ran up the flight of stairs to the first landing. To our left, at the far end of the corridor, I made out a grime-covered window. We ran toward it. Like the rest of the building, the window was warped and dirty. Julie pushed fruitlessly at the frame.

  "Stand back!"

  I lifted my right leg and kicked out the glass. Two more kicks cleared out the broken shards still remaining in the woodwork. "Now!"

  Julie clambered out. I followed right behind her. The fire escape was rusty and soot-covered. Below was an alley. I heard a shout come from the street end.

  "I'll go first," I said to Julie. "We don't know what's up there."

  As quietly as we could, we mounted the metal rungs. The shouting grew louder.

  Black against black, the dark shadows of the fire escape melted into the soot-blackened bricks of the building. As long as we were on it, we couldn't be seen from below.

  Three stories down, the kitchen door burst open. One of the men who'd come into the bar after us ran out into the alley. In the spill
of light from the open door I could see him clearly as he peered both ways.

  He shouted, "Did they come your way?"

  Someone yelled back at him, "Try the fire escape!"

  I heard the screech of rusting metal as he leaped up and caught the bottom rungs of the vertical ladder at the lowest stage of the fire escape. It descended protestingly under his weight.

  I urged Julie on. We were now on the fifth landing and that was it. The roof was in front of us. I lifted Julie over the edge onto the asphalt-tarred surface. Pausing to catch my breath, I looked around. In the starlight I could make out a cluster of half a dozen vents and chimneys from the building's heating system.

  "Over there!" I pointed them out to Julie. "Wait for me over there!"

  Julie picked her way across the rooftop. The ledge across the edge of the roof was about two and a half feet high, with a stone coping topping the bricks of the building. I ducked down behind the ledge and waited. He was in a hurry — and he was careless. As he came scrambling over the top of the ledge, I straightened up and hit him along the jaw with a sidearm swing, my two fists clenched together. It was like pole-axing a steer.

  I ran toward Julie.

  "Let's go," I panted.

  Together we stumbled our way across the rooftops toward the end of the row of adjoining buildings. Every forty feet or so, we crossed from one roof to another, scrambling across the low partitions. We made it to the far end. Cautiously I peered over the edge.

  Down on the street below, silhouetted by the lamplight, a man waited by the alley entrance.

  Julie touched me on the arm. "How are we going to get by him?"

  I looked around. In the middle of the roof of the building was a shed-like structure. I knew that the door inset into it had to lead to a stairwell.

  Crossing to it, I pushed against the door with my shoulder. It didn't budge. I smashed against it. It gave way slightly. I slammed full force into the door and the lock gave way.