New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  Jacobson started talking, lightly punching his finger against Ludwig’s chest. Ludwig stayed cool and collected. Then Jacobson told him Dieter was dead. Hawkins watched for the reaction. When it came he uneasily fell back.

  Ludwig laughed. He actually broke into a smile, first cracking at the corners before spreading across his face. Then he snickered, goatee vibrating up and down. Ludwig smilingly bobbed his head in agreement to Jacobson’s tough points, interrupting partway through to ask about the Mercedes. When Jacobson said he’d have him driven out, Ludwig smiled and heartily shook his hand. In the most sincere tone possible, he thanked him for his discretion in handling the matter, assured him there was no need for the police to be involved or for Miss Schenck to worry about anything.

  A minute later Jacobson swung open the door to the gallery.

  “Was that easy.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “No. Perfectly steady.”

  “He didn’t mind at all.”

  “I’ll tell you, I’m glad I don’t work for him. He must be the coldest fish in the sea not to give a fig over his own guy getting killed. Actually apologized for the inconvenience it might have caused us. Only thing he gave a damn about was his car. No wonder he’s a Nazi.”

  “Perhaps you did him a favor.”

  “Hang around here awhile, you’ll see it all. Our driver’s taking him out there now,” Jacobson said, “He’ll—”

  Jacobson was interrupted by a shriek and the thump of a tool.

  -81-

  “AWW! My arm!”

  One of the men threw a file on the floor. “Goddamn freakin’ thing! Dull already!” He’d slipped, jabbing Daisy. She was still bent over the back of a big club chair. Two of Jacobson’s men had been holding the handcuffs, filing away on the chain links. The cuffs kept slipping back and forth, cutting into her wrists. A miscellany of tools lay scattered about the floor. Gabe, the short, powerful doorman, picked up the file. The other man, Herman, let go of the cuffs.

  “Please, can I stand up awhile?” she sobbed, slowly straightening. Hawkins ran over and wiped her face with his handkerchief.

  “You mean none of you—considering your business here”—they simply stared at him—“you don’t know anyone who can pick locks?” They seemed mystified, except for Gabe, who bristled.

  “No. See here, gambling may be illegal but we’re only businessmen trying to collect what’s owed us.” He expectantly looked at the others for confirmation. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Can’t they find a hacksaw?”

  “We’ve already broken two blades. File’s the only thing that’ll work. Blade rattles right off.”

  “That’ll take hours!”

  “Yeah, well—”

  Hawkins bent over, examining the cuffs closely. On the underside was a small stamp: SWISS. Damn. Had to be Swiss, didn’t they? The filing had barely scratched it. If his valve company experience held true they were probably nickel-vanadium-chrome-steel something. Couldn’t use plain old carbon steel and plate it like everyone else. Probably take a water cooled, diamond bladed, power bench saw to cut through them. From the thinness they had to have an easy three-pin mechanism. It’d be ridiculously simple to take them off.

  A conference between Jacobson and his men broke up.

  “We’re gonna go find a pair of bolt cutters.” Jacobson said. “Sit down and rest awhile, hon.”

  She sank into the chair as they trooped out. Alone, Hawkins thought, Do I dare? The image of her swaying in his arms at the farm, her bare skin glistening darkly in the moonlight, crept in. One more glance at her strained, tear-streaked face cinched it.

  “I’ve got an idea. Hop up. Let me have a try.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes. Trust me.”

  She wearily stood and turned around. He had his pick set out and unfolded in a second. Medium size, he thought, up and over: one, two, three. The cuff clicked and slid open. Stop it halfway out, move to the other one—need to take them both off at once—

  “I broke it!”

  “Oh, thank God!”

  Left hand, up and over: one, two, three. She felt the lock spring open and instantly flung her free hands up triumphantly. The hooked pick caught in the opening of the lock, ripping it from his hands. The cuffs flew up, ricocheted off the ceiling and bounced in the middle of the floor. They glimmered on the carpet, picks sticking out of the lock like a floral arrangement. He lunged for them. She tackled him around the neck first.

  “Oh, Roy, you did it. You did it again,” planting a huge kiss on his cheek, kicking her feet in the air for several long seconds before he broke free.

  Jacobson strode through the door the very instant Hawkins’ fingers reached the leather case. His eyes locked on the picks. Hawkins palmed them off, casually trying to pocket them. Jacobson flipped out a small nickel-plated automatic with a flick of his wrist. He stood sideways to Hawkins, holding the gun close, gesturing with a pair of bolt cutters in his other hand. His men formed a flying wedge behind him. They began reaching for guns, too.

  -82-

  “What’s a businessman like you doing carrying lockpicks around, and don’t tell me it’s your hobby. You could’ve had ’em out a lot earlier.”

  “I can explain—”

  “Are you in rackets!”

  “No! I—”

  Daisy seemed mystified, a confused expression dawning on her face. “You had a set of lockpicks?”

  Jacobson cut her off. “Let me guess. You’re in town for the annual jewel robbery!”

  Hawkins stepped back, shaking his head. “No! Please. Listen to me.”

  “You’re exactly the slick type for a big-time jewelry thief,” Jacobson said.

  Daisy abruptly shouted them down, “Shut! Up!” A stunned silence filled the room. “You mean you could’ve got these damn handcuffs”—she grabbed them from the floor and began waving them, increasingly angry—“off in the farmyard?”

  “I’m sorry, Daisy. He’s been lying to you,” Jacobson said.

  “You were, weren’t you!”

  “No—I—” Hawkins started to answer, paused. No, he thought. The coming answer—any excuse—it would be ridiculous. “Yes—obviously.”

  “All that stuff about my relatives,” Jacobson said, “this business of yours. Why you really following these Krauts?”

  “That story about joining the FBI,” Daisy said, “that’s a lie, too, isn’t it!”

  The moment they heard “FBI” the gang panicked. They began shouting together, “FBI? He’s a cop! Oh my God! He’s a cop!”

  “Enough!” Jacobson shouted, wagging the automatic at him. “Everyone. If you’re a cop, so help me God, you’re going into the lake—if Lansky, the others, find out we let the Bureau in here—”

  He means it, Hawkins thought. He’s badly frightened. Frightened means dangerous.

  “I have been lying,” Hawkins said. “These are professional lockpicks. But I’m not a cop. I work for the British government.”

  “What?” Daisy said.

  “I’m sorry, Daisy. I truly am. I’m an officer of His Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. My job is hunting Nazi spies all over the world. London sent me to track down Nazi agents here. But the story about the Bureau is true. J. Edgar Hoover wants to hire me away to hunt spies for him. But I’m not about to be a cop.”

  Jacobson growled, “You work for the British? I’m tempted to turn you in.”

  “You? Call the Feds here? That’ll be interesting. Didn’t I hear you say you were dead men if—who was that? Linsky?—knew a G-man was here?” Hawkins waited. Silence. “Obviously, being a British agent, I have contacts in London who might be able to help your family, if we’re lucky. Do you want to see the duke’s card again? Of course, if you shoot me—” Jacobson slowly lowered the gun. “Thank you. And, Daisy, everything I said about the two of us at Millicent’s is true. Please, you have to believe that.”

  “A spy? You’re a British spy?”

&nbs
p; “No. I’m an agent, a type of investigator, if you will. I’m not spying on this country. Ludwig is. Actually, I wasn’t even supposed to be here more than a few weeks. I’m supposed to go back overseas.”

  Daisy began unconsciously working her shoulders back and forth. “Roy, why didn’t you tell me—”

  “Oh, that’s the very kind of thing you tell a girl, isn’t it? Besides, Your Ladyship, you weren’t very forthcoming, yourself—‘scamps pretending to be something they’re not’?” He grabbed the edge of her tutu and gave it a little tug. She flinched a bit, yanked it away, then glanced off and let out a deep breath.

  “Oh. I guess. I wasn’t. I … I—” She looked incredibly upset again, on the edge of tears.

  “It’s all right. Daisy—” He reached out with a hand on her waist.

  She threw her arms around his neck. He hugged her tightly. She whispered in his ear, “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”

  “Yes. We are.”

  “How do we know you’re not making up another story?” Jacobson said. “Like about my folks?”

  “As I said. Call the British consulate in a few days,” Hawkins said. “Until then, you’ll have to trust me.”

  “Daisy, do you think it’s true those Krauts are Nazi spies?” Jacobson said.

  She hesitated, frowning. Then she answered quietly, very carefully, almost a whisper, looking back, leaning away from Hawkins while still holding on to him.

  “Yes, I do believe they are. I heard them talking about—things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Paying people off.”

  Jacobson looked like he’d been gut punched. “Goddamn, in my club!” He grabbed a pad from his desk and started rapidly writing.

  Daisy tightened her arms around Hawkins. She whispered in his ear, “This, what you told me. It’s safe with me. I’ll never tell. They won’t, either. They can’t. You—we—can still go to Washington,” she squeezed him hard, “it’s okay.”

  Jacobson handed Hawkins the paper.

  “Lookit, I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I want your help. I don’t want to screw that up. But the Bureau! You’re making us all nervous as hell. Maybe you oughta clear out of here.”

  “You want me out of here? I want us out of here.”

  “Okay, okay, here are the names. Oh, by the way, it’s Lansky, Meyer Lansky. And I’d appreciate it if you forgot you heard that.”

  “I will. I appreciate your help, too. Let’s go, Daisy.”

  -83-

  Hawkins got the car door. He opened his arms wide. She stood up. He gently wrapped them around her, cradling her. She stood still for a moment, neither resisting nor relaxing. Then she let go and started shaking, a hard shivering, all over. He gave her a strong hug, pulling her close, holding her tightly.

  “It’s all over,” he said.

  She slowly quieted, steadily relaxing and slipping her arms around him. He held her by the waist. They stood embracing for several minutes, then slowly and silently paced to the manor. She locked the old paneled door behind them. With a gesture of ineffable sweetness she wrapped her slim, delicate fingers around his and led him up the great staircase to her bedroom. Every few steps she smiled over her shoulder, tugging him to come.

  She dropped her necklace on the dressing table. He embraced her again, sweeping his hands up to the top of her back and down again with the zipper in his fingers. With a single, simple motion he thrust her dress to the floor. As he pulled it down she straightened up slightly, lifting her chin, breathing deeply through her nose, mouth open, smiling slightly, her hand rubbing his arm and shoulder.

  It’d been twenty-four hours since he’d had any sleep. But he felt uncommonly lucid. At one with himself. The world. Eternal. He ran his fingers through the back of her perfumed hair. She turned her cheek. He kissed it. She stood waiting and watching in the darkness of the room as he slipped out of his clothes. They stood silently for a moment. Just gazing at each other, openmouthed, breathing deeply. He wrapped his arm under her shoulders and easily swept an arm up under her knees, carrying her to her ancestor’s great four-poster, nestling in next to her.

  Her soft skin felt so good next to his.

  Afterward they fell deep asleep, her head resting gently on his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around her. Birds in the trees outside started stirring in the dawn. Exhausted by days of traveling, missed meals, eccentric sleeping hours and several brutally hard fights, Hawkins slept the dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted.

  When he woke, Daisy’s sleeping head still rested on his chest. He craned his neck up, checking the angle of the sun on the floor. Had to be close to noon. Daisy wasn’t waking. Should get up, he thought. But he lay still, holding her. Studying her sleeping face. Her long delicate lashes. The curve at the tip of her nose. The round highlight shining on her shoulder. Her amazing hair.

  How indescribably wonderful waking up next to her. So easy to get used to. A real life, home, friends, meals together. A good book shared. No more lonely nights. He ached to think of it. The tip of Daisy’s forehead was right under his chin. He could smell her breath. Sweet and rich, an intoxicating liquor, almost.

  Being shot at—and missed—that kind of close brush with extinction made you incredibly aware of your own mortality and existence. It provoked a sense of wonder and savoring it. But that was nothing like this. I’ve never felt so alive, he thought. Not only in touch with my own mere existence, but hers, the world’s, all in tune. How could I even think of giving this up?

  She stirred. He gently caressed her silky hair. She woke with a smile, lifted herself up on an elbow and gazed into his face.

  “Hello, sleepyhead,” he said.

  “Hello, Roy. I want to stay here all day.”

  “Me, too.” He yawned and stretched, then laughed. “Oh, damn! I have to get going. What time is it?”

  “Time for a kiss.”

  They rolled back under the sheets again, giggling in the morning light. Forty minutes later Hawkins sat up again.

  “I really do have to take care of matters—important matters.”

  “Hmmm …” She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep again.

  Hawkins watched her for a long moment, totally contented. He idly reached over, mostly not paying attention, fishing for his watch in his pants. He pulled it out by the strap. The blood had dried and flaked off. What’s that on the back? he thought. Didn’t notice that. He held it up to the light. There’s … an engraving. He rubbed his eyes and checked.

  VON MUTTER IN LIEBE

  -84-

  He lay back for a moment. Then he got up. Walked to the window. Walked back to the bed. Walked back to the window. Held it up and read it again. VON MUTTER IN LIEBE.

  No. Not dreaming.

  Not my watch.

  His mind began racing, stomach turning over. Dieter didn’t steal the watch. That meant it might not have been him in the washroom. What’s happened here? He began thinking over the chase, the barnyard. Dieter caught her stealing, or trying to steal from the car. He wanted to know how she knew. He was scared. Very scared. He kept saying the same things—How did you know. Hey say something …

  Why was he so panicked? Oh God. Was it “I say something”? His accent—thinking in German, speaking in English. Sagte ich etwas? Did he mean, “Did I say something”? Did he think he’d screwed up again? But he hadn’t talked to Daisy.

  No. The other girl by the kitchen. Talked to her for a good bit. That’s it. He got them mixed up. The mask. Thought Daisy was her. He had the wrong girl. Did he say something to her? Or think he said something to her? He’d had a few beers. He thought he’d slipped and screwed up again. Yes. Ich sag etwas … I say something—a question.

  Wait. Wait. He did grab Daisy. That was kidnapping. And he really roughed her up. Horrendous. Brutal. Belongs in jail.

  But the way he’d stood there, in the barnyard. Dieter froze. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t throw her in.

  Or … I stopped h
im? Okay. Maybe. But what happened then. What did I do? He was in the well. He was helpless. I poured gas all over him. I threatened to burn him alive. Reckless. Dangerous. Got carried away again. And for what?

  Hawkins slowly eased down on the bed. His back started throbbing and pounding again. God. Everything has gone to hell. He remembered back at the hotel. “I have lost everything I have worked for because of the führer. I could’ve gone to Hollywood. I could’ve been the next Sonja Henie …” He was there on the steps listening to the jazz. Like me.

  What have I done? I killed him for nothing—he wasn’t the man in the washroom. I killed a basically innocent man. Well—no—no. Wait. Dieter was an armed Nazi agent. He abducted Daisy. He might have killed her. And he tried to kill me, that set off the explosion. But I am still responsible. He was my prisoner. I should’ve been more careful.

  And that’s the smallest part of this. We’ve lost an incredibly valuable potential asset. We might have turned him.

  Great God, this is a disaster. We could’ve had a double agent traveling around with Ludwig everywhere. Reporting every contact. We could’ve ripped out the whole network. Or fed them back every cockamamie story we could think of to sabotage their war effort.

  Daisy stirred behind him. He gazed over his shoulder at her, studying her sleeping face, so quietly breathing. He came to yet another level of mind.

  No. Killing Dieter was not the worst. I almost let her die. I was willing to sit back and watch. That would have made me a murderer. He rolled back and put his arms around her. What if Dieter had shot her in the head? Or broken her neck? Anything but throw her screaming headfirst down that well, into the water to drown. Water—drowning—that was what hit me, it was me. That set me off. Otherwise I might have held back. I would have let him kill her. I know I would have.

  What would it have been like when she didn’t show up the next day? Would’ve figured it out soon enough. How could I have lived with that? Not merely that she had died. But that I had stood there watching. Done nothing.