New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  I already wanted her badly enough to kill Chet. Would I have killed that spoiled brat? Yes. I am still that crazy for her. But I almost lost her. I almost let her die. Almost watched her die.

  What is the matter with me? What has happened to me?

  Daisy rolled over, smiling, saw his face, saw something.

  “What’s the matter, Roy?” It took a minute to respond. “Roy, you’re scaring me—”

  Finally, “This isn’t my watch.”

  “Excuse me? What watch?”

  “I took this off Dieter in the farmyard. It’s identical to the one that was stolen in the States Hotel. Don’t you see?”

  “Forget the watch.” She began kissing his chest.

  “I assumed Dieter jumped me there. But he didn’t. Someone else did.”

  At that Daisy scowled slightly. “Oh. Well, he still had it coming.”

  “No—I mean, okay, but what the hell gives? Who attacked me?”

  “Ludwig?”

  “No, he was big. I’ve so fouled up here, I just can’t figure exactly how.”

  Hawkins eased back up with a tight groan, took a deep breath, glanced down and saw the small metal case he’d wrenched from the Mercedes. The case—maybe—something.

  -85-

  Hawkins fetched his picks from his other pocket and grabbed the case. He rolled back against the headboard and began picking the lock. What was so incredibly important Dieter had panicked like that? The lid flew open with a clang. A pile of dusty old certificates were on top. He tossed them aside.

  But Daisy took a deep breath, a gulp, and cried, “Jesus! Roy! Be careful!” and dove over the side of the bed, catching the certificates before they hit the floor. She popped back up with the papers, an awed expression on her face.

  He frowned. “’Bout what?”

  She began gently flipping through the papers, licking her thumb, eyes darting over them, increasingly excited. “Don’t you know what these are?”

  He disdainfully glanced over at them, rummaging around in the case. “No. They look like dusty old mortgages.”

  “Actually, they are, in a way. These are bearer bonds! Denominated in Swiss francs.”

  “Oh, yes, I think the bear’s the symbol of Zurich.”

  “No! Bear-er! Bear-er!”

  “Well, excuse me for not traveling in your exalted social circle.”

  “There’s millions of francs here!”

  At that he really began paying attention. “Swiss franc’s worth about fifty cents.”

  “Forty—fifty—there’s eighty of them. Half a million each.”

  “Forty million dollars? What? You’re joking.”

  “Why, no.”

  “How can anything possibly be worth that much?”

  “Bearer bonds are like cash. You see, there’s no bond holder’s name on them. Here!” She pointed at the top. It read, in German and French, payable to bearer on presentation. “Whoever holds them, has them. Bearer bonds are the most compact form of wealth on earth. Gold, diamonds, they’re nothing in comparison. Banks mainly use them to move great sums between themselves. You can walk into any main or central bank office in the world and cash these in a jiff.”

  She began passing them to Hawkins one at a time. He began studying them. Horrifying. And a relief at the same time, he thought. This is a scary sum of money. The horror at killing Dieter, the mess, the blown opportunity, began to recede, at least slightly. A scary sum made them scary people again. What men would do for this kind of money. Or worse, what they could do with this kind of money. No wonder Dieter was in such a panic.

  “What on earth? Ludwig was driving around with forty million dollars in his car? For what? How—where—could they possibly use this kind of money?”

  She rolled over on her stomach, still nude, swinging her feet in the air, slyly smiling. “I can see I undercharged him.” He lightly slapped her on the bottom with a bond.

  “Be serious! This is major, major money. A destroyer, new, costs a million dollars. Churchill’s trying to lease a squadron of old destroyers from the US Navy right now. This could buy a whole fleet of them. Forty destroyers. New.”

  Cooing, she slipped her arms around his neck and began nuzzling his cheek. “I think it’s very lucky for us—”

  Hawkins gently pushed her off with a finger. “This is very dangerous for us! We don’t know why this is here. But it’s got to be absolutely massive to require something like this.” He bounced from the bed onto both feet. “Time to get to work, report in.”

  “To who? London? Or Washington?”

  “You know who.”

  “Why not Washington? Shouldn’t they be handling it, anyway?”

  “Because if I leave the Service I’ll be cut off from the sources of information I need to deal with this and keep us both safe. Wherever I’m going or whatever I’m eventually going to do, I have to clean this up first.”

  “What about the bonds?”

  Hawkins already had his pants and shoes on, hurrying. “Chet owns a bank, doesn’t he?”

  “His family does. Several, actually. It’s a bank holding company, branches all over the world.”

  “Know which ones?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Chet’s right in the middle of this, one way or another.”

  “They were all out there together.”

  “Righto. So we can’t take these to a bank for safekeeping. We might tip off his friends we have them. You better hide them here for now. And don’t tell anyone, especially your—what shall we call them—associates, out at Riley’s.”

  “A girl’s got a right to a few mysteries!”

  “Few!” He laughed. “You’ve got more than a few!”

  He slipped his arm under her, lifted her up and heavily kissed her, gently laid her back down and started leaving. She sprawled out on the bed, relaxing, arms behind her head. He snapped his fingers, stepped back, and plucked the tutu from the floor, lightly tossing it to her.

  “Oh! Act natural, like nothing’s happened. Go to work.”

  “What?”

  He looked at her in a way and spoke in a tone that meant it. “Like nothing’s happened.”

  “Hmm—you’re right.” She gently laughed, waving it over her head “Who’d think a girl with forty million bucks under her bed would be carting drinks in this!”

  -86-

  A piercing whistle from the train yard ripped through the hotel. The noon express chugged north, the low beat of push rods pulsing through the building.

  Hawkins lingered with his stethoscope at the side door. Not a whisper emanated from Ludwig’s room. Could he’ve slept through that blast? No, never. But where is he, then? Could be reading. Got to be sure, before cracking that door.

  His empty stomach grumbled. Haven’t eaten all day. Of course, he thought. Food. He hurried upstairs to his suite, grabbed the phone and asked for room service. In a fake German accent, he ordered a club sandwich, coffee and a fruit bowl delivered to Ludwig’s room, then sped downstairs. The waiter promptly arrived, knocking several times without an answer.

  Hawkins stuck his head out. “He’ll be back in a minute. He said lock it inside.”

  The waiter opened the door with his service key and deposited the tray on the dresser. Hawkins listened until he was gone, then gleefully opened the connecting door and sauntered in. Hot, fresh coffee. A tad juvenile, charging breakfast to the enemy, he thought. Still, we are supposed to make them pay.

  He checked the rifle first. Too all appearances it hadn’t been touched since Hawkins’ last inspection: it’d gathered a very slight coating of dust and lint. Most of Ludwig’s other things still laid in their places, including his cameras, papers, and the microprinter. But two brown bottles of photographic solution now sat on the old marble sink, along with a small snail-type metal developing can and a familiar black cloth bag with sleeves for opening film and pouring developer in cans.

  But where was he? Probably off relaxing in some cool and shady spot. Hawk
ins relocked the door and leisurely finished his purloined lunch.

  Shortly after one o’clock footsteps rang in the hall followed by the grind of Ludwig’s key in the lock next door. Almost instantly, Hawkins had his stethoscope pressed to the connecting door, picking up their voices.

  “48–9D? Let’s see them,” Ludwig said.

  “Yeah. Here,” the man said.

  “Good,” Ludwig said. “No one saw you take it?”

  “No,” exasperated. “No one saw me.”

  Ludwig began noisily moving things off the nearby dresser top. Several minutes of silence passed by. The man began angrily whining.

  “Hey—What? You’re developing them now?”

  “Ja.”

  “I’m going to miss my train! I have to get those blueprints back!”

  “Take the late train.”

  “Aw hell! Whata’ya need ’em now for?”

  “I intend to make sure the negatives are good! Do you want to bring the blueprints back to me yet another time if they’re foggy? Eh?”

  Hawkins could almost hear the man fretting as Ludwig methodically went about his chore. The sound of running water meant the negatives were still rinsing in the sink. Another high-pitched blast of a locomotive whistle bellowed from the station behind the hotel. The man, whoever he was, had missed his train. The tempo of the man’s footsteps increased, pacing up and down, punctuated with little curses. Every little while came the sound of Ludwig’s equipment clicking.

  “Good,” came Ludwig’s voice, now relaxed, increasingly jovial. “They’re perfect.”

  “Okay, then, give me the note. I want the note.”

  “Of course! My pleasure. A moment, please.” There was a pause and a rustling of papers. “Here it is. Just think, you saved yourself another trip to Riley’s.”

  “Yeah. Swell.”

  “Remember, if you have access to anything else, please let us know. We’re always interested in what you might have and in helping the friends of peace.”

  “Like I care. Thanks for nothing.” The door slammed shut. For the next hour, the occasional sound of equipment emanated from the room. Then Ludwig left. Hawkins tailed him down to the lobby. Ludwig posted an airmail letter at the desk, then went back to his room.

  Hawkins immediately found an empty phone booth and called New York. W was out. He gave the report to his secretary, then followed back up to the room.

  Shortly after four o’clock, footsteps resounded up the hall again.

  -87-

  Ludwig greeted Chet and Ventnor at the door, a trifle short on congenialities. His manner with them had shifted overnight, now careful, wary. Ventnor spoke first.

  “I’m sorry about your man, Doctor. Do you know what happened?”

  “No. He simply drove off.”

  “What about the car?” Ventnor said.

  Ludwig was cool. “I’m still trying to find it.”

  Chet exploded in anxiety, frustration, anger. “The hell with the car, what about the money!”

  “It’s missing, too,” Ludwig said.

  “He stole the money, is that it?” Chet said.

  “The case was installed in Germany. He didn’t know it was there.”

  “You expect me to believe that? Isn’t it convenient. He’s gone, the car’s gone, the money’s gone, you don’t know where anything is.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Maybe you’ve got the money.”

  That slightly broke Ludwig’s controlled calm. “I don’t have the money! Why would I steal it?”

  “The fact is, all the people who knew the bonds were in the car are in this room. For all I know, maybe you stole them, Walter.”

  “Me?” Ventnor said. “You’re the one who’s got the connections around here. How would I do that? And I’m not in the hole, you are. Maybe you got them.”

  “Me? If I had them, would I be here—”

  “I dunno, I’m just sayin’—”

  “We’re all acting crazy,” Ludwig said.

  “Hey! Crazy nothing!” Chet said. “You’ve got to find that goddamn money!”

  There was a short silence.

  “We will. We will pay you back. If I wanted to cheat you, I wouldn’t be here, either,” Ludwig said.

  Chet only barely calmed down. “You damn well better! If the rest of the family finds out I’ve been rolling all those accounts around to cover—”

  “We’ve come this far,” Ludwig said, “we are very close, it will be cleaned up by the end of November no matter what happens.”

  “You’ll do better, so help me God!” Chet said. “Remember, I’m the only one who can set up all those checks and wire transfers so they can’t trace it to you! And you!” Listening in the next room, Hawkins figured he must be pointing at Ventnor. “That includes the money to pay for that radio network of yours!”

  The list W couldn’t figure out. Of course, Hawkins thought. Checks. Wire transfers. It wasn’t code. They were bank numbers. Payments. That’s what all that money’s for.

  And Ventnor. The Nazis were subsidizing his broadcasts. That’s how he came up so fast. But were all those arrangements merely cutouts for Ventnor?

  “You won’t damage your chances like that,” Ludwig said. “Do you want four more years of Mr. Roosevelt? Heh? Haven’t we given you the means to take care of the election, pay these men, get rid of him? Ja?”

  Right, Hawkins thought, not just Ventnor’s broadcasts—

  Ventnor finally intervened. It sounded like he’d stepped in between them, almost pleading.

  “Chet, listen, Chet, calm down, my friend, calm down. Really. Remember, I’ve got a lot at stake here, too. You don’t see me worrying—”

  “Yeah—” Chet’s tone was still angry. Ventnor kept mellifluously reassuring him.

  “That’s ’cause I called Washington first thing this morning. Talked to Hoover himself. The FBI’s been alerting every bank in the northeastern states all afternoon. You don’t see those things every day! When they walk in with them we’ll have ’em. They’ll get the bonds back. Don’t worry.”

  “Mr. Ventnor’s going to handle it—let him handle it,” Ludwig said.

  “We’ve got people on the job—”

  “All right, I guess—okay,” Chet said.

  With that Ludwig acted back in charge again. “We must go, then. There’s work to do.”

  “That’s right,” Ventnor said. “We can’t spend too much time on this ourselves.”

  “Yes,” Ludwig said, “we have to finish setting up the entire project before people start paying attention in the fall.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Chet said irritably.

  Ventnor started again, “We’ve got to lock enough of these guys in now, put the money in their pockets, get them committed—incriminated—so they can’t back out. A few are bound to have second thoughts as we get closer to November fifth. A county commissioner called me from the Midwest yesterday. Says he’s got to cover five people in his office.” There were shuffling noises as they started going out. “We have to plan on that kind of thing happening, allow time to handle it. Some places we’re talking to, they’re going to create an entire duplicate set of paper ballots. That takes time. A whole bunch are going to send broken voting machines to neighborhoods where Jews, niggers and union members live—you know, keep out people who have no business voting, that’s just as good as stuffing ballots in the boxes. They used to do good work with those poll taxes down South, they had the right idea. Wops, Paddys and Polacks, too. Or make ’em stand in line forever so they have to go feed the kids. Others are going to purge the voting rolls in advance. Send the bastards home. Five o’clock at night? What are they going to do? Get a year’s worth of power and light bills? Find a judge? Get a court order? At five p.m.? What a laugh. Another has—” The door slammed shut.

  -88-

  Their muffled voices died out down the hall. The stethoscope slipped from his fingers and he began aimlessly wandering around the room. After
a moment or two, Hawkins slowly sank back into the chair feeling slightly buzzy. Everything he’d heard ricocheted in his head without congealing.

  Got the Bureau working on it. Wire transfers. Get people incriminated. Find the goddamn money. Means to take care of the election. We’ve got the Bureau. Do you want four more years of Mr. Roosevelt? County commissioner. Before the fall. An entire set of duplicate ballots. November fifth.

  He dug into his wallet for a small pocket calendar. The fifth was circled in red. It was the first Tuesday. Election Day.

  That intercept in Bermuda …

  It’s ballots not bullets.

  Images flashed to mind, filling his field of vision, as if he were right there at this very moment. The crowded, crazy streets in Vienna when Hitler drove in. That man in Prague offering up his wife. The half-track clattering around the corner in Paris. The long column of gray troops stretching up the avenue. The tears of the old veteran. The swastika flag unfurling from the tower. Only it wasn’t the Eiffel Tower.

  It was the Empire State Building.

  Coming here. Happening here. Vienna. Paris. New York. All the same. All over again.

  I can’t go back to Paris. Paris has come to me. To here. Always assumed, took it for granted, this place, America, would always be here, would always be safe, could not, would not change, no matter what happened elsewhere. In what complacency or arrogance or mindlessness did I think that? Not true, at least, not true anymore. What happened there is following me, pursuing me, to here. Like on the road to Cabio Ruvio. Or the U-boat, chasing me to Hawkins Island, right to the shores of the New World.

  Paris and New York. France and America. They were the same, now. Could retreat from France. No place to retreat to from here.

  He jumped up and stormed down to the lobby. This time he didn’t wait for three free booths in a row.

  -89-

  “Special Agent in Charge Kelly, please. Tell him it’s Roy Hawkins.”

  Kelly came on the line.