Winslow tapped his chest. “Sweet little Beretta 1934. Not that I’ve had to use it very often.”
“Nor would I wish you to. But when the time comes, do not hesitate. And now,” Foxx stacked the Sunday newspapers carefully beside his chair, drew a golden turnip from a pocket and examined it, then repeated, “and now, I shall retire to my greenhouse and assure myself that the dear roses are safely enjoying their winter hibernation.”
*
Martha Mayhew was sitting up in bed when Andy Winslow entered her hospital room. She looked about a thousand per cent better than she had the day before. Which is to say, she looked like a young woman with a bandaged forehead rather than a wax dummy or a corpse waiting to be transported to the morgue. She was holding a movie fan magazine, slowly turning the pages of photos of Greta Garbo and Myrna Loy, Gary Cooper and Robert Montgomery, stopping in between to study ads for cosmetics and shampoos.
Winslow reminded her of who he was and she managed a smile of acknowledgement. She said that she was feeling better today. She also told him that she was starting to remember the previous day’s events. “I was trying to deliver a night letter to your house.”
“Yes. To my boss.”
“I’d come from the Postal Telegraph office on my bicycle. I’m trying to save enough money for college.”
“You were shot on our doorstep.”
“Next thing I knew, I was here.” She laid her hand on the bed-sheet when she said here. “But I can remember what happened before I was shot.”
Winslow nodded encouragement.
“I was pedalling carefully because the new snow was slippery and I didn’t want to skid. There was hardly any traffic, so I steered over near the curb. I noticed a car parked across the street with somebody sitting in it, and the motor running – I could see the exhaust.”
“Did you notice what kind of car?”
She started to shake her head but stopped and raised a hand to her temple. “Wow, that hurts!” She drew a couple of breaths, then went on. “It was a closed car, I think a coupé. A dark colour. I didn’t notice the brand.”
“A LaSalle?”
“I’m sorry. I really didn’t notice. But I saw inside a little bit. There were two men. They were talking to each other, but when I pedalled up they stopped, and one of them rolled down his window and talked to me.”
Winslow waited.
“He asked if it was cold enough for me. You know the old joke. ‘Cold enough for you?’ ‘Hot enough for you?’ ‘Wet enough for you?’ I’m from Indiana, Mr Winslow. I know all about cold and hot and wet. I said it was just fine, I love winter and snow. The man said, ‘How about a ride, we can put your bicycle in the trunk, you’ll be warm.’ I said I was nearly there, but thank you anyway. And I was nearly there. I was looking at the house numbers on West Adams and I turned up the footpath and leaned my bike against the railing and reached for the door knocker; that was the last I remember until I woke up in here.”
Andy Winslow started to ask another question but Martha Mayhew dropped the movie magazine and lay back in her bed. “I’m very tired.”
Winslow said, “That’s all right. You’re doing very well.” He started for the door, then turned back. “One more question, Miss Mayhew, and I’ll leave you. Could you identify either man? By his appearance or anything else?”
She closed her eyes and he thought she was going to sleep, but she opened her eyes again and said, “He was wearing glasses. Round glasses with metal rims – the one who talked to me. And his hair; his hair came down to a point, a … a … what they call a widow’s peak, you know? And he spoke with an accent. Some kind of European accent.”
*
Andy Winslow had picked up Rose Palmer early at her Sutton Place apartment. She wore a pale green chiffon dress that set off her white shoulders and flaming hair; darker green, elbow-length gloves, a silver fox jacket, and high-heel pumps completed her ensemble. They stopped at the Carlyle for cocktails and a medley of Cole Porter melodies, then proceeded to West Adams Place.
By the time they arrived there, a full moon shed ice-cold light on the frigid scene. They hurried up the steps to the front door. Earlier in the day Reuter had laid a fire. Jacob Maccabee and his companion were already present. The fire was crackling. Longhair music – the kind Winslow disliked – oozed from concealed loudspeakers in the corners of the room.
Jacob Maccabee and his companion were seated on the brocade sofa near the fire. Jacob wore a pinstripe suit, white-on-white shirt, maroon diamond-patterned tie. His dark complexion and saturnine features looked positively satanic in the light of dancing flames.
Foxx made introductions.
Maccabee’s companion was a broad-shouldered woman of middle years. She wore her blonde hair in long braids, wound around her head, and had on a brown dress that did little to hide her full figure. Rubies, or at least red, gem-cut stones, sparkled at her ears and throat and wrists. Her name was Lisalotte Schmidt.
Reuter’s wife, Helga, served hors d’oeuvres. Foxx himself rose from his favourite chair to offer beverages – a rare event, Winslow noted.
After a time Helga Reuter returned to announce the meal, and the party moved from the parlour to the dining salon.
The meal consisted of alternating hot and cold courses: a red-pepper soup of Reuter’s own devising, a cold asparagus salad, small portions of fillet of sole in lemon sauce, tiny portions of sherbet to clear the pallet, noisettes d’agneau with small roasted potatoes and legumes, and for dessert Reuter’s own apple pie served hot with home-churned vanilla-bean ice cream.
During the meal it had become obvious to Andy Winslow that Lisalotte’s English, while fluent, was not that of a native speaker. Her accent bore a distinct North German harshness.
When the meal had ended, Caligula Foxx offered a humidor stocked with dark red Cameroon Diademas. Jacob Maccabee accepted one – as did Lisalotte Schmidt, to Andy Winslow’s surprise. Rose Palmer declined the smoke, as did Andy. An ancient Bodegas Gutierrez Oloroso sherry was also served.
Foxx blew a stream of blue-grey smoke towards the room’s high ceiling. He turned to the investigator. “Jacob, you have prints of the photographs provided by our friend Barney Hopkins. Would you be so kind as to pass them around.”
The photographs were crisp and glossy. One was apparently a studio portrait. It showed a man apparently of Foxx’s age. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. A small swastika pin was visible on his lapel. The face was long and not altogether unhandsome. The most notable feature was his jet black hair, which he wore cut short. The hair had receded from his brow above the eyes but protruded forward in an extreme widow’s peak. He wore round, steel-rimmed spectacles. A point of light was reflected sharply in each lens.
The second photo was neither as formally posed nor as sharply focused as the first; in it, the man in the first photo could be seen standing in a small group. All were similarly garbed in grey military uniforms with peaked caps. All of them were smiling as if they had just accomplished an important and rewarding task. All of them wore swastika armbands on their uniforms.
“This is a news photo,” Maccabee explained. “Came from Barney Hopkins’s paper’s photo library. It’s our boy and some comrades celebrating the reunion of Sudetenland with the Fatherland just a few weeks ago. Aren’t they all a happy little crew?”
“The fellow with the devilish hair is one Heinrich Konrad,” Foxx stated. “He and I were comrades – after a fashion – in the Great War. He is now my mortal enemy. He arrived in the United States using the nom de guerre of Bedrich Smetana.”
“Dopey name,” Andy Winslow commented.
“Not really,” Foxx corrected him. “I would say, rather, that Pan Konrad is thumbing his nose at me. He must have known that I would find out he was in New York, and he has chosen a name that only a fellow Bohemian would recognize. Or a lover of fine music. Being neither, Andy, you could hardly be expected to get the joke.”
“Okay, Caligula, so I don’t know this Be
dford Stuyvesant guy or whoever he is, but I do recognize the gink in the photos.”
That created a sensation.
“Blast you, Andrew, why didn’t you say so?”
“Caligula, I just did.”
“Double blast you! Out with it! You recognize Heinrich Konrad? Had you seen his photo in the newspapers?”
Andy Winslow shook his head. “I was up at the hospital earlier today visiting Miss Mayhew. She’s getting her memory back. She described two men in a car who offered her a lift on her way here from Postal Telegraph. One of them was this bozo.”
He picked up the portrait photograph and snapped Heinrich Konrad on the nose with his fingernail.
Jacob Maccabee made a humming noise. “Mr Foxx, this is all very interesting, but you haven’t given me my assignment.”
Foxx repeated the information he’d given Andy Winslow about the planned luncheon at the Blaue Gans. “I want Heinrich Konrad in this house. I want to confront that man. I want to find out his mission in this country and I do not want him to be able to accomplish it. Do you understand me?”
Andy Winslow asked, “Why don’t you go to the meeting yourself, Caligula? I’ll warm up the Packard and—”
Foxx’s frown and his angry growl were all the answer Winslow needed. He already knew how much Foxx hated to leave his home. “All right, Caligula. Then why not just invite him over?”
“He would ignore my invitation. No, Andy, we must lure the rat from his hole and into our trap. That will be Miss Schmidt’s job. I have known Konrad for a quarter of a century. I know his taste in many things, including women. He is drawn to women of – pardon me, Miss Schmidt – a certain size and appearance. Large women with long blonde hair worn in braids.”
He turned to the woman in the brown dress. “Did Jacob Maccabee explain your assignment to you? Is this agreeable to you, my dear?”
Lisalotte Schmidt laid a large fist heavily on the table. “He is one of Hitler’s men, this I know. You know they kill people. Mostly Jews they kill, but also others – anyone they choose. My brother Heinz, he was – how do you say it – slow. He was like a child. He did not understand everything but he was a sweet man. He harmed no one. He wanted only to please.”
She shook her head. “They came for him, the Nazis; they said they were taking him to a hospital to make him better, to make him like everyone else. He trusted them, my Heinzie; he went with them, smiling back at me and merrily waving, but it was not to a hospital they took him. It was a camp. They killed him there. Hitler’s men. Men like this Konrad. Yes, I will lure him here, Herr Foxx, Pan Foxx; I will bring to you this foul Nazi rat.”
*
It might have drawn too much attention had they arrived together, so Andy Winslow and Rose Palmer, Jacob Maccabee and Lisalotte Schmidt walked into the Blaue Gans a few minutes apart. December night falls early in Manhattan. Duane Street was a small thoroughfare, running from West Broadway to Church Street. The lighting was poor.
A cold wind carried a hint of sleet. Andy Winslow and Rose Palmer scurried through the cut-glass doors of the Blaue Gans into a merry world that could have come from Mad King Ludwig’s Bavaria. The restaurant was decorated with stuffed hunting trophies. Bartenders seemed to compete for the title of Largest Belly and Biggest Moustache. Serving-girls carried foaming steins of beer.
Winslow asked a waiter where the Beethoven–Wagner Institute was holding its meeting, and he and Rose Palmer were directed up a flight of stairs to a meeting-hall filled with oversized tables set with white linen and shining china. There must have been a couple of hundred members of the Institute at least – the majority of them males – gathered in groups, exchanging conversation in a mixture of German and English.
Half a dozen oversized portraits decorated the walls. Winslow assumed that the fierce-looking individual with the shock of dark hair was Beethoven – at least, he thought he’d seen that image on the cover of a record album in Foxx’s collection. Then the other old-timer in the fey-looking outfit must be Wagner. Winslow nudged Rose Palmer. “Who’s that gink next to Wagner?”
“Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,” she whispered back. “Don’t you know anything?”
He recognized Otto von Bismarck from a herring-can in Reuter’s kitchen. The guy in the fancy uniform and trademark moustache was the old Kaiser, no question about that. And then there was the biggest portrait of them all. Der Führer.
Andy Winslow and Rose Palmer drifted from group to group. Rose drew more than her share of male attention and not a few suspicious glances from females. They kept well away from Jacob Maccabee and Lisalotte Schmidt. Jacob’s features might be a little too obvious in this crowd, Winslow mused, but he could handle himself.
Most of the men in the crowd – in fact, Winslow realized with a start, every one of them – wore unobtrusive pins on their lapels. They depicted an angry raptor not unlike the old NRA blue eagle. But, when Winslow got a closer look at one, he realized that instead of holding lightning bolts in one claw and a cogwheel in the other, the pins substituted a swastika for the cogwheel.
The symbol was everywhere. There was even a table near the door where a couple of functionaries proffered sign-up sheets to new arrivals, and sold eagle-and-swastika pins and lavallières. Andy bought a pin for himself and a lavallière for Rose. The insignia stood out against the tasteful lavender of her silk-covered torso. She leaned against Winslow and whispered in his ear as she lovingly attached the pin to his lapel. “If we ever get out of here alive I’m going to have to take twenty showers before I feel clean again.”
The chairman, a thin-faced, thin-haired individual, whose personality matched his slightly shabby grey suit, rapped for attention and asked everyone to take their places. He stood at a speaker’s lectern decorated with the eagle-and-swastika symbol. Andy and Rose found seats at a table far from the centre of action. Jacob Maccabee and Lisalotte Schmidt placed themselves near the head table.
They sang The Star-Spangled Banner and then Deutschland Über Alles. The chairman gave a half-embarrassed-looking Nazi salute and everyone sat down. A beefy individual at their table seemed determined to dominate the conversation. That was fine with Winslow. The beefy guy was an importer. All he could talk about was how great the newest Telefunken and Blaupunkt radios and phonographs were. He could get you a deal, he could get you a great deal on either brand. You’ve never heard anything like it. The music made you believe you were in the Berlin Opernhaus. Ach, Schumann, Von Suppe, Abel, Johann Sebastian Bach and all his sons, Praetorius, Gluck. And opera – why, you would think you were at Bayreuth in person! And did you know what was coming soon? Yes – he wasn’t supposed to tell you about this yet, it was very hush-hush, but … the German engineers under the inspired leadership of the Führer were developing television; yes, television, and soon you would be able to see great drama and important political rallies in your own home. Yes! It was true!
Winslow ate Kavalierspitz mit Sauerkraut und rote Kartoffel and drank a couple of glasses of zweigelt umathum. Rose Palmer nibbled at a frisée salad with a poached egg. The importer kept talking and Andy hung on every word, relieved not to have to say anything except for an occasional Ach, ja? or Nicht wahr, or Wunderschön!
They’d just started on coffee and Schnapps when someone stood up and started singing. Andy Winslow blinked in astonishment. It was Jacob Maccabee. He was swaying drunkenly, leaning on Lisalotte Schmidt’s shoulder, singing “Es zittern die morschen Knocken”.
Lisalotte joined in, then a couple of people at Maccabee’s table. The grey-suited chairman stood up and rapped his gavel a couple of times, then realized it wasn’t going to work and started waving the gavel like a conductor’s baton. Now the whole room was singing. When the song ended, Jacob swung into “Kampflied der Nationalsozialisten”. The songs came to a roaring conclusion, followed by men jumping up at one table after another giving the stiff-armed salute and Sieg heil-ing.
Jacob sat down to a round of applause.
Rose Palmer leaned over a
nd whispered in Winslow’s ear, “I thought he would try to make himself inconspicuous in the middle of all these Aryans.”
“Leave it to Jacob,” Winslow whispered back. “Right into the lion’s den, and challenge anybody to call him out on it!” He couldn’t help grinning.
Once the singing had died down, the diminutive, grey-suited chairman rapped his gavel again. “Ladies and Gentleman, Damen und Herren, Kameraden—” a round of applause at the last word. He went on like that, mixing English and German, and all the while it was obvious that he was leading up to the boffo introduction of the special guest of the evening.
“But, first, a special treat!”
He reached under the speaker’s lectern and came up with something the size of a movie poster. He studied it himself. The side turned towards the audience was blank.
“In case any of you missed this recent newspaper, I want you all to see it.”
With a grin, he turned the poster towards the audience. It was a huge enlargement of the Mirror front page with the photo of the Essex Street synagogue, blown up and burning. He made a clucking sound with his tongue, the kind your mother does when you’re just mildly naughty. “Isn’t that a pity.”
The audience howled with laughter and applause.
“And now, Damen und Herren, the noble leader of our movement in Sudetenland, a comrade-in-arms in the great National Socialist revolutionary movement, the man who led our separated brethren from the false and artificial state of Czechoslovakia back into the welcoming embrace of the Fatherland. May I introduce to you – Herr Heinrich Konrad.” He hadn’t bothered to use Konrad’s nom de guerre.
Andy Winslow felt Rose Palmer grab his hand under the table. Her nails were sharp and her fingers were like ice. He returned the squeeze, heard her exhale a held-in breath.
The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction Page 52
