New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  -96-

  The train thundered into the distance leaving a shocking silence behind. Hawkins collapsed in the middle of the street, hands flat on the pavement, shivering as if chilled. He began shaking his head slightly, his breath pulsing in his ears the way the locomotives roared in the train yard.

  Behind him came the sound of running heels rapidly clicking toward him. Daisy cantered through the courtyard entrance. She flicked her hair back to see and frantically ran toward him. She skidded to a dead stop at his back and flopped over him, wrapping her arms around his chin and neck, legs pressed against his back, squeezing his shoulders, her hair cascading down into his face. She started crying.

  “Oh, Roy, I was so scared something would happen to you.” She stood for two or three minutes hugging him upside down, rocking back and forth, her face pressed next to his.

  “It’s all right, I’m quite all right, quite all right,” Hawkins said. He tried rising. So desperately want to stand, he thought. Legs were rubber. No time to indulge in any false chivalry. “Come on, help me up. We’ve got to go.” She tugged him to his feet and steered him, swaying, back into the hotel courtyard, legs wobbling.

  Jacobson and two of his men were standing with their hands in their pockets curiously studying the body he’d pitched from the window, the way a commuter might stand and wait for a trolley.

  “You okay?” Jacobson said. Hawkins nodded. “We better not push this too long.” Pointing at the body, “Get him, and the ones outside.” They all planted a hand on the corpse, yanked him up in the air and began wordlessly carrying him through the deserted hotel lobby back toward the street. Jacobson heavily huffed alongside with his share of the burden. He seemed unconcerned.

  “Aren’t the police coming?” Hawkins said.

  “Naw. I told them to scram.”

  “Excuse me? How’d you do that?”

  “They’re all on our payroll.” A contemptuous edge slid into his voice. “They do what they’re told. For a while.”

  Hawkins stumbled down the front stairs hanging on to the dead man’s shirt collar, clutching Daisy’s waist with the other. The corpse’s arms bounced aimlessly off each riser, forcing them into a chaotic high-stepping strut, almost jumping to avoid tripping. They reached the car. Hawkins pulled at Daisy, blindly kissing her, his lips banging onto her cheekbone.

  “Go home. I’m not finished yet.”

  “Come up later,” she said. He banged another kiss on her cheek. She climbed into the back of the second car. It sped off. The rest of the gang ran up with the other two bodies and unceremoniously lobbed them on the Lincoln’s wide rear floor, piling them like cordwood. Jacobson, Gabe and Hawkins awkwardly clambered in on top of them. Herman spun the car around and raced back through the dark empty streets. Hawkins was about to direct their way to the abandoned farm when Jacobson gently tapped Herman on the shoulder.

  “Blocks.”

  Herman nodded as if he knew exactly what to do. In seconds they were cruising the back streets on the outskirts of town. He slowed a couple of minutes later, creeping to a stop in front of a dark construction site. Gabe hopped out and ran in, dashing back a second later balancing three hollow concrete blocks. Herman sent the car rolling into the night again, swaying down the backcountry roads.

  -97-

  They rolled the bodies over faceup. The first man, the man Hawkins shot in the hallway, had a large, ruddy, blocky face with a crew cut heavily tinged with white. Probably about fifty, Hawkins thought. He had yellow, rotting teeth, shabby, worn clothes, thick, orangey-yellow calluses on his hands. A muscular man who’d obviously spent a lifetime working hard.

  Practically no money in the wallet, a few small bills and change. His ID gave an address in a prosperous New Jersey suburb. That has to be fake, Hawkins thought. The man’s hardly an executive type. He began shuffling the man’s billfold back together. His finger felt a small bulge wedged in a side pocket. The leather easily ripped apart. A small flat saint’s medal fell out. At the top protruded a loop for a neck chain. Why hide it so? It hadn’t served its owner very well. He started to slip the medal back in its hiding place, then stopped and pressed it into the dead man’s hand, sadly squeezing his lifeless fingers around it.

  Hawkins angled over, studying the mute, enigmatic face again. The man simply didn’t have the cast of a professional agent. Spies were mainly educated, middle-class, civil servant types, not proletarians. The man can’t be in Ventnor’s employ, either, he thought. Simply too working class. And what about the saint’s medal? None of it fits the mold. But someone, somewhere had decided Hans Ludwig’s freedom and safety were worth this man’s life.

  They switched places and pulled up the gunman who so conveniently if unwillingly offered up his body to break Ludwig’s fall. With a finger, Hawkins rolled the man’s head over by the chin. The blood had already begun congealing into a hard crust over the single bullet hole. A young face, Hawkins thought, no more than thirty. Has a hardened cast to it, though. This man does look the professional assassin, right down to the black clothes and crepe-soled shoes. His pockets were completely empty. Exactly as one would expect. The man’s smooth hands were devoid of identifying jewelry. We’ll get nothing off this one.

  It took all three of them, grunting and heaving, to pull the third man, the sniper, up from the bottom. A middle-aged man in casual street clothes. Hawkins checked his hands for calluses. They were red and chapped, with angry cracks around the knuckles, like he’d spent years washing dishes. His shotgun wounds didn’t appear very serious. Hawkins lifted his head and rolled it. Broken neck. The fall killed him. He’d probably flinched and slipped.

  Jacobson took over. He rolled each body on its back, knotting the big man’s necktie through the block. Then he hooked the other blocks through the two men’s belts. When he finished and sat back, Hawkins noted a glint. He reached down, pulled up the black-clad assassin’s wrist and rolled the man’s sleeve back. A watch. A gold Curvex.

  Hawkins hastily peeled it off. New. No engraving. My God, my watch, he thought, the man in the shower. He pocketed it.

  “You shouldn’t keep that.” Jacobson said.

  “It’s mine. I have the receipt for it.”

  “This guy robbed you?”

  “Yes. Attacked me in the washroom at the States Hotel.”

  Jacobson looked down at the man’s face, shaking his head quietly. “Damn.”

  “At least I know Ludwig sent him.”

  “Why didn’t he kill you the first time?”

  “That was personal. This was business.”

  That Ludwig summoned this man, this time, made sense, Hawkins thought. Dieter was dead. But why hadn’t Ludwig sent Dieter earlier? Dieter—

  “Ludwig’s car. Who took him out there? What happened?”

  “Herman,” Jacobson said. “When you drove that German guy out to his car, what’d he do?”

  “He was really upset about his car getting wrecked. I was waitin’ for him to faint for a second. So I took him back to the hotel.”

  “Is the car still there?” Hawkins said.

  “Believe me, it’s not going anywhere, the shape it’s in,” Herman said.

  “Jacob, you’ve connections to the local police,” Hawkins said.

  “You could call it that.”

  “Tell them to go out there.”

  “First thing in the morning.” He looked out the window. “Not long now.”

  The three of them sat abreast in the back seat, silently and tensely waiting, feet resting on the bodies covering the floor in front of them, their knees chin-high in the air. After several minutes the road narrowed. The spidery framework of an old iron bridge loomed out of the darkness, the one Dieter had almost collided with. Herman slowed at the top of the curving deck, searching the road ahead and behind. The highway was empty. He jammed his foot on the brake.

  Gabe flipped the right-side door open. With one motion the three men bent over and picked up the first body. They clumsily shuffled side
ways two steps, stumbling over the other bodies, struggling to keep their balance. They flung the corpse over the rusting iron rail. The dead man sailed out into the dark. A distant splash followed. Seconds later the others followed, arms eerily flapping at their sides, flying to their watery grave. Hawkins, Jacobson and Gabe piled back in on top of each other. The car sped off the bridge before the third splash echoed across the inlet of the lake.

  The bubbles subsided in a matter of seconds. The thick, deep weeds wove a clutching nest around them, holding them to the lake bottom, even without the drag of the blocks. The three men in the car straightened themselves out.

  “Any chance they’ll float up?” Hawkins said.

  “No. Gas can’t get trapped inside with those holes in ’em.”

  Jacobson’s matter-of-fact tidbit sank them all in deep silence for several minutes. Finally Herman craned his neck back, squinting.

  “You know, if we keep throwing any more of them stiffs offa’ dere—some boat’s gonna run aground someday.” A collective guffaw broke out. In a split second, it pitched up into screaming shrieks of laughter. Distorted by speed into the howl of a banshee, it poured out the open windows, sweeping the little clapboard cottages lining the lakeside road. A few restless vacationers fitfully rolled in their sleep.

  -98-

  The lights of town finally winked invitingly ahead. After plunging through the tree-lined tunnels of streets they dropped Hawkins at his car by the hotel. They leaned out the windows, childishly waving goodbye like a cheerful ball team back from a weekend match—just another sporting night at the Spa. Hawkins managed a terse smile and a little wave.

  Only a couple of minutes back to Daisy’s. She dashed out the door in the gray dawn light before he had the motor shut off, awkwardly running across the soft lawn in her heels. An overjoyed expression of relief was written across her face. But she stopped a foot short of him, hesitating.

  “I was afraid you weren’t coming back.”

  “No. I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t do that. Here I am.”

  She reached out. He embraced and hugged her and smelled again the perfume of her hair and the intoxicating liquor of her breath. She pulled him toward the house. He kissed her again.

  “Ludwig is gone,” she said.

  “Yes. He’s out there, God only knows where.”

  “What about Ventnor?”

  “Dead.”

  “Then it’s all over—”

  “What’s over?”

  “This crazy chase. What more can you do? What more can they expect of you? It’s not fair.”

  “I’m not sure. I have to sort this all out. What happened here tonight, the craziness. None of it makes any sense.”

  “Roy, why even think of sticking with this? Washington, the FBI … Now is the right time. Why leave, why go back to Europe? It doesn’t make any sense. Don’t you want to catch Ludwig? Do it there. At the Bureau.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Let’s go in. I need to make a phone call.”

  “Roy, I need you. Please. Think what could be—”

  “I know. I think about that all the time, too.”

  -99-

  Kelly drew up alongside. An air of tight officiousness barely masked a small, eager smile.

  “Morning, Mr. Hawkins.”

  Let’s see how he reacts, Hawkins thought. Just drop the news like a stone in a pond.

  “I’m afraid you’re too late, Kelly.”

  “What?” A wave crossed the happy expression on Kelly’s face. Then a ripple of confusion spread. That and the smile disappeared. He tapped the steering wheel a few times, staring down at the dash, palpable disappointment written in deep furrows across his face. “Get in.” Hawkins got out and climbed in Kelly’s car. “Let’s have it.”

  “Ventnor’s dead. Ludwig shot him. He may have had help. I can’t tell you much more, the locals are crawling all over the site.”

  Kelly instantly drove up the street. He nonchalantly double parked in front of the hotel, blocking in a police black-and-white. Every few seconds he’d glance sideways at Hawkins. Deeply suspicious. The opaque expression he’d had when they first met back in place on his face.

  Inside the lobby doors a buzzing mob of people in bathrobes were fervidly exchanging wild stories about … rubouts … an army of midget mobsters with machine guns … a whole chorus line of showgirls … shooting that went on for hours. Several unshaven men began pressing their versions on Kelly. He grimly elbowed his way through, ignoring them, and marched up the stairs. Hawkins directed the way with a few curt gestures. Several blue-uniformed city policemen and a gray-clad state trooper with his peaked Mountie hat filled the corridor. Kelly sighed.

  “Do you know if he had anything on him?”

  “I saw Ludwig hand him papers in the dining room. Try his breast pocket.”

  “Okay.”

  Hawkins caught his sleeve.

  “But the jackpot’s next door, in Ludwig’s room.”

  “Jackpot?”

  “The latest secret Nazi microphotography equipment. Creates a negative the size of a match head. You’re going to be impressed, I promise you.”

  Kelly’s tense posture eased slightly, his expression still opaque.

  “Okay. That’s what I need.” He started to move, looking back, pointing at the local police, “These guys? You talk to them?”

  “Mike, I gave you my word. Anything that came to my attention, you get it first.” Hawkins gestured at the door. Kelly’s blank expression lifted a bit. He smiled slightly.

  “Yeah,” almost whispering, then, “Follow me.” He flipped out a gold FBI badge, marched in and curtly snapped, “Step aside.” The patrolmen instantly jumped back against the wall. Kelly sauntered into the room like he owned the entire hotel. He introduced himself in a staccato declamatory manner, “FBI Special Agent in Charge Kelly, New York region.”

  All the officers inside either jumped to semiattention, too, or swung around at Kelly’s declaration, staring at him. Their faces lit up with slack expressions of surprise and almost adolescent awe at being in the presence of a real live G-man.

  The chief of police jumped up, tumbling his notebook to the floor in haste, offering his hand. Kelly studiously ignored it. The chief twitched his hands back to his sides, nervously wiping his trousers.

  “Pleased to meet you, Agent Kelly. We’d certainly appreciate any professional assistance from your level.” The tone was distinctly deferential. “May I ask, what’s the FBI’s interest in this case? This little killing of ours is hardly a federal matter.”

  Kelly poked a thumb at the gory mess on the bed. “Find any papers?”

  “No, we haven’t examined the victim’s effects.”

  Kelly pulled the sheet down, delicately lifted the jacket up, reached in and whipped out the partially bloodstained photos. He studied them for a second. Hawkins leaned over his back, playing it up.

  “That must be it. See, he wrote on it in German.”

  “Hey!” Kelly angrily jerked it away, glowering. “What’s in here?” He walked into Ludwig’s room, put on a pair of thin white cotton gloves and began pulling the cases out, dumping them on the bed. The open bottles of solution were still standing on the dresser. Ludwig couldn’t have had much warning. Kelly cracked open the big case holding the microprinter and began examining it. His face lit up, whispering to himself, then glancing with a barely suppressed, grateful smile at Hawkins. “Now this is a career maker—”

  Hawkins and the chief followed him in. Inspecting the room, too, the chief picked up one of the bottles on the sink by the cap. Kelly cursed under his breath and snatched it back, frowning inquisitorially, holding up the blueprint.

  “Have any of your men seen this paper?”

  The chief hesitantly put his hand forward. “No, I don’t think so. I know I haven’t.”

  Kelly snatched the paper away, folding it up. “This paper contains highly classified military material.”

  “Classified?” The chief s
quinted in confusion. He evidently hadn’t heard the term before.

  “Top secret!” darkly scowling, “US Navy! I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This is a national security case. We’re taking over jurisdiction. I am sealing this site for our forensics.”

  The chief stood in the center of the room and stared at Kelly for a long moment, dumbstruck. He wavered, frowning. Then his face began winding up in irritated disbelief.

  “Wait a minute. We have it on an excellent source,” he drew out the word “e-x-c-e-l-l-e-n-t” for emphasis, “this is a routine syndicate shootout over some rackets operation. Word on the street is,” he visually swept the others for confirmation, “some boys from Chicago were trying to muscle in. I know there aren’t any military aspects to this case.”

  “Word on the street? Oh, really?” Kelly mockingly repeated it again, “Word on the street.” He stepped right into the chief’s face, inches apart. “I know exactly what that particular chestnut means.” Kelly’s face darkened. He tapped the chief’s chest with his finger, then his own. “Now get this straight. I’m the Federal Bureau of Investigations. You’re a local flatfoot. Under the US code these classified papers give me unconditional jurisdiction. I’ll have your cooperation or I’ll have you up on charges for obstructing a federal espionage investigation.” He started shouting. “You better think twice. I’d like nothing better than charging you ’cause then I can stick my big federal snout into all the dirty shit goin’ on around here. How will your crooked mayor and your crooked commissioners and your crooked Republican county chairman like that? What, you think we don’t know who they are? What they’re taking in? What’s going on here? We know about that thing you call The List. We know who’s on it. We know what they get, including you, right down to last fucking dime!” The chief looked as stunned as a dynamited fish, his mouth motionlessly hanging open. “Well? You happen to know who that is?” The chief shook his head. “Walter Ventnor! The radio celeb! You still want to stick your dick in this?”