The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

by Ashley, Mike;

  In the corner of the LaSalle’s rear window was a sticker. It depicted an American eagle, a cluster of lightning bolts in one claw and a swastika in the other.

  “Konrad beat us here, Caligula.”

  “All right. Let’s get on with this.” Fox turned. “Jacob, are you ready? You and Miss Schmidt? Your friend Lieberman is expecting us? Right, then into the lion’s den we go!”

  *

  The Sapphire-MacNeese Aircraft Company loomed like a grey rectangle against the bright blue sky. A smartly dressed receptionist asked them to wait while she phoned Dr Lieberman. The reception area was decorated with oversized photographs of past Sapphire-MacNeese aeroplanes. There were single-engined pursuit craft, both open-cockpit biplanes and streamlined closed-cockpit monoplanes. There were also a couple of bombers – huge, lumbering, four-engined aerial behemoths. There was even a modern airliner, silvery and glistening, that looked as if it could give the latest Boeing and Douglas models a run for their money.

  Aaron Lieberman arrived and shook hands all around. He was red-haired and freckle-faced. He looked more like a schoolboy than one of the leading aviation designers of the era. He put his arm around Jacob Maccabee’s shoulders. “Mr MacNeese is in town this week, Jake. I’ll introduce you. Mr Foxx, I know he’s heard of you. He’ll be thrilled to meet the famous detective.”

  Maccabee said, “I’ve told my friends about your little robot flier, Aaron. I know they’d like to see it.”

  Lieberman said, “We need to talk about that. Come on, this will only take a little time.”

  He led the way to a conference room. When they entered they were confronted by a pair of uniformed figures, one in the heavy forest-green outfit of an army major, the other in the dark blue of a navy captain. A third man, wearing civilian garb, was also present. The newcomers were ushered to seats at a polished table. The naval officer promptly took charge of the meeting.

  “Mr Foxx, Mr Winslow, Mr Maccabee, Miss Schmidt,” the captain nodded to each in turn. “I’m afraid there has been a serious breach of security. I’m not blaming Dr Lieberman or anyone else here at Sapphire-MacNeese. Oh, I don’t suppose you know Mr Carter MacNeese. It’s his company.” He allowed himself a small, rather icy smile.

  “Dr Lieberman has confessed that he took home a test model of the OR-X1. That he actually demonstrated it to at least one of you. Ah, Mr Maccabee, I see you’re joining in the confession.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a confession,” Maccabee responded. He was angry, that was clear.

  Lieberman’s reaction was milder but similar. “I acknowledge that I took it home. I showed it to Mr Maccabee. I wouldn’t use the word confess, though, captain.”

  Now Carter MacNeese took a hand. “Captain, I understand that the government wants the OR-X1 kept secret. That is what they want now. And we are implementing every possible precaution to keep this device out of the hands of any potential enemy. But, we started this development on our own; then, there was no government contract. We’ve been offering the OR-X1 to the army and navy for three years. They finally decided they wanted to give us a contract for the device. You can’t hold Dr Lieberman responsible for a breach of security before there was any security to breach!”

  They went on that way. By the time the conference broke up there were armed soldiers and sailors patrolling the halls.

  Aaron Lieberman spoke to Caligula Foxx and his companions. “I guess there won’t be any demonstration of the model today. We’ve been running tests from a navy submarine in Peconic Bay. I wonder what the local wildlife think of our little flying gadgets. Or the local fishermen! Jake, you won’t talk about this to anyone, I hope.”

  “Of course not. I love the way those military stuffed-shirts act as if they were high muck-a-mucks.”

  Now Lisalotte Schmidt spoke up. “What about Konrad? He was going to come out here today!”

  Lieberman grabbed the nearest telephone. He got an extension. He asked a question, waited for an answer, then exclaimed, “Gone? Both of them gone? Call the gatehouse.” He turned to the others, aghast. “They’ve left. I don’t know if they took anything important with them. A working model or a set of blueprints.”

  Andy Winslow sprinted for the door. He raced to the visitors’ parking lot. He turned around and walked back into the building. “Come on, everyone! The Packard is still there. The LaSalle is gone.”

  Caligula Foxx sank into a visitor’s chair. He dropped his head into his hands, held the posture briefly, then shook himself like a dog emerging from a duck pond. He pushed himself to his feet and suddenly, for the first time since arriving that morning, he was clearly the man in charge of the situation.

  “Mr MacNeese and those uniformed popinjays will have to be informed at once. Someone needs to telephone the FBI right away. Probably the general and the admiral will draw straws to decide who gets to do the job. Konrad and Strauss must have caught on, they know their gaff is blown. I expect that they’re headed back to Manhattan and straight to the German consulate on Park Avenue. Either there or to Bund headquarters in Yorkville, but they’ll have extra-territorial rights at the consulate. That will be up to the FBI.”

  To Lieberman he said, “I’m sorry about all of this. My apologies, sir.”

  Lieberman shook his head. “Not your fault, Mr Foxx. Not your fault.”

  Andy Winslow was practically jumping up and down with impatience. He ran for the door, followed by Jacob Maccabee and Lisalotte Schmidt. Caligula Foxx brought up the rear, puffing like a winded dray-horse. Winslow held the Packard’s passenger door open for him. He had the big sedan in gear even as Foxx pulled his feet from the running board.

  They headed out of the parking lot, blew past the little guard-station, and headed for the new roadway that would lead to Manhattan. They caught sight of the LaSalle just as it pulled on to the Grand Central Parkway. It must be a special model, perhaps modified from the modest little car that it appeared, for it accelerated furiously away from the Packard and headed back towards the city.

  There was considerable traffic in both directions; commuters headed for their homes and shoppers and celebrants speeding into New York. The sky had turned grey and heavy, wet flakes were falling, threatening to make the roadway dangerously slippery. The Packard’s windshield started to ice up and Andy Winslow turned on both the wipers and the defroster.

  He caught sight of the LaSalle forty or fifty yards ahead. He could see the eagle insignia in its rear window. He floored the Packard’s accelerator, and the big car leaped forward. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled the Beretta from beneath his arm.

  A convoy of bright yellow school buses loomed ahead of the Packard; the LaSalle blasted past them, the Packard following. Andy Winslow caught a glimpse of children’s faces, peering out the windows of the buses, watching the two speeding cars as if they were piloted by Barney Oldfield and Eddie Rickenbacker.

  A figure leaned out the passenger window of the LaSalle and pointed something at the Packard. Andy Winslow saw a yellow-red flash and heard a metallic sound as a small-calibre bullet bounced off the Packard’s fender. The LaSalle swerved in front of the first school bus, the Packard following, drawing alongside the LaSalle, and Winslow caught sight of a hand as the passenger leaned across the driver and fired again at the Packard.

  Winslow handed his Beretta to Caligula Foxx. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Foxx roll down his window and get off a shot at the LaSalle. From the back seat of the Packard, Winslow heard a loud report. He inferred that it was a .38 or even a .45, fired by Jacob Maccabee.

  A circle appeared in the driver’s-side door on the LaSalle, which swerved, its bumper clipping the corner of the Packard, swerving back again into its own lane. Another shot came from the LaSalle and Winslow felt the Packard lurch to the side. He fought the wheel, struggling to keep the big sedan from going into a 360-degree spin, finally managing to bring it to a halt on the shoulder. The LaSalle swept past, the convoy of school buses close on its tail.

  Andy Winsl
ow climbed from the Packard and walked once around the car. He let loose a string of obscenities that would have made a longshoreman’s ears burn. Jacob Maccabee climbed from the car, and the two of them jacked up its front end and replaced the destroyed whitewall tyre with the spare.

  When Winslow and Maccabee climbed back into the car, Caligula Foxx said, “A pity, Andy. If only we’d acted a little sooner we’d have caught them before they ever got out of the parking lot.”

  Winslow shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He inhaled deeply. “All right, boss. What now?”

  Foxx said, “Of course that was Konrad and Strauss. They’re probably headed for the German consulate.”

  “Okay. We’ll catch them there.”

  Foxx shook his head. “The consulate is technically German territory. We can’t enter without permission, and you can be sure that we’d not get that.” He looked dejected, a rarity for the huge detective. “Back to West Adams, Andy.” He laid a massive arm on the back of his seat and swung around to face Jacob Maccabee and Lisalotte Schmidt. “Reuter will fix us a light supper and we’ll plan our strategy.”

  By the time they reached West Adams Place, an early winter dusk had fallen and the heavy, wet snowfall was turning streetlamps into glowing lanterns. They trooped up the steps to the old house, Foxx in the lead, and lifting the brass gryphon’s head to let it fall against the strike plate. He pulled his watch from his vest pocket and studied it.

  “Where the devil is that fool Reuter? You’d think he’d know enough to answer the door.”

  Andy Winslow said, “He’s probably busy in the kitchen, Caligula. You know when he gets involved in a new recipe, he just goes into a world of his own.”

  “All right, all right.” Foxx slipped his watch back into his pocket. “Blast it, I never even carry a key. Why would I need it when I never leave the house? Andy, you must have one, the way you gallivant around all night and wander home at all hours like an alley-cat.”

  “Right.” Andy Winslow tugged at his keychain and found a key to the front door. He inserted it in the lock and turned. The door swung open. They all entered.

  The foyer was dark. “Reuter!” Foxx shouted again, “Reuter, confound you; what does it take for a man to be admitted to his own home!”

  There was no response.

  “All right.” Jacob Maccabee hung back, closing the door behind the others. Caligula Foxx advanced, followed by Andy Winslow and Lisalotte Schmidt.

  Music was coming from Foxx’s study. The massive detective smiled. He turned to the others, said softly, “Liebestod. The Wagner piano transcription. Of course. One must credit even the monster Konrad with taste.”

  He signalled Andy Winslow, pushed open the door to his study and took a cautious step across the threshold. He recognized Heinrich Konrad seated at Caligula Foxx’s grand piano. His touch on the keys was skillful and surprisingly sensitive. A Walther pistol lay on the music stand; clearly, Konrad knew the piece by heart.

  Konrad looked up, an icy smile on his lips. He said, “Come in,” addressing Foxx by a name other than Caligula Foxx.

  “You remember—” said Foxx. He advanced several more steps. Again, there was a fire on the hearth, although a smaller one than on prior days. A man’s body dressed in a dark suit lay before the fire.

  “Your chef is in the wine cellar, Soudruh. Or would you prefer Genosse? Or simply Comrade? We were comrades long ago, were we not, Herr …” Again, he used the name that was not Foxx.

  “Call me what you will.” Foxx stood over the prone figure. “We were comrades at one time. I would not call you Comrade now, Pan Konrad. Herr Konrad.”

  “No. Nor I you, save, perhaps, for old times’ sake. It is time for revenge, then, Soudruh. What is it that Monsieur Sue said in his novel? ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ It has been twenty years, Soudruh. Twenty years since you betrayed me.”

  “Betrayed!” Foxx snorted. “You would have sold us out to the Serbs had I not stopped you.”

  “They were advancing. We were outnumbered. To fight on would have made no sense!” Heinrich Konrad rose from the piano bench, reaching for the pistol that lay on the music stand. He lifted the pistol and pointed it briefly at Caligula Foxx but then he lowered his hand and sat once more, holding the pistol in one hand, caressing it with the other. “Too soon, Soudruh, too soon. We must settle our ancient grievance first.”

  “There is nothing to settle, Heinrich. You fixed a handkerchief to your bayonet and started from the trench. I merely did my duty.”

  “Duty. Pah! What duty? You toadied to the officers so they made you a sergeant and you became a veritable martinet.”

  “I did my duty, Heinrich. I was a soldier in the Emperor’s army. As were you. And when I reached for your token of shameful surrender you—”

  “I know what I did, Soudruh. Yes, I turned my bayonet on you.”

  Foxx made an odd gesture. “I carry the scar to this day.”

  “My only regret is that I didn’t kill you on the spot.”

  “Ah, but you did not. And we held off the charge.”

  “And I was cashiered and imprisoned. For that there is no forgiveness. None.”

  Foxx turned away from the other. He knelt beside the body on the floor. Then, to Konrad, “I take it that this is Mr Strauss.”

  “He served his purpose. I could not take him back to Europe with me and he would have been dangerous to our cause in America. I knew him. He was weak. He would have revealed too much, too soon, to the wrong persons. Anyway, already he was wounded in the car. I am not a nursemaid. He is a problem no longer.”

  “So you shot him. In the back of the head, I see. Clearly your preferred form of murder. Will you do the same to me? Here, I will make it easy for you.” He struggled to his feet, puffing as he lifted his great bulk from the floor. He swayed, then reached for the edge of his desk to steady himself.

  He stood with his back to Konrad. Over his shoulder he said, “Well, Heinrich? I see you find it most convenient to shoot when you do not need to look them in the face. You shot that poor child whose only crime was to deliver a telegram.”

  For a time there was no sound in the room other than the crackling of the fire and Caligula Foxx’s breathing as he slowly regained his equilibrium.

  Then strangely, Foxx heard the music resume. He turned. Heinrich Konrad had placed the Walther pistol back on the music stand and resumed playing the Wagner melody. So softly at first, that his voice could barely be heard, Konrad began to sing.

  Mild und leise

  wie er lächelt

  wie das Auge

  hold er öffnet

  seht ihr’s, Freunde?

  Seht ihr’s nacht?

  Immer lichter

  wie er leuchtet,

  stern-umstrahlt

  hoch sich hebt?

  Seht ihr’s nicht?

  And from the doorway, advancing slowly into the room, a hand extended before her, the other concealed behind her back, came Lisalotte Schmidt. She sang, also, in harmony with Heinrich Konrad, Wagner’s lines rendered into her own accented English.

  Softly and gently

  how he smiles,

  how his eyes

  fondly open.

  Do you see, friends?

  Do you not see?

  How he shines

  ever brighter.

  Star-haloed

  rising higher.

  Do you not see?

  Heinrich Konrad rose to his feet, his hands resting on the piano above the keyboard. The Walther pistol still lay on the music stand.

  Lisalotte Schmidt brought her hand from behind her back, pointing Andy Winslow’s Beretta at Heinrich Konrad.

  Konrad started for the Walther, but Lisalotte Schmidt fired a single shot. He slumped back on to the piano bench, bleeding from the shoulder. With his other hand he reached for the Walther but was stopped by a single word from the bulky woman.

  “Lisalotte,” he murmured. “Lisalotte. After … after o
ur night … after our night of love … Lisalotte. How—?”

  “Sie haben meinen Bruder ermordet.” Her voice had become an angry growl.

  From the doorway, Jacob Maccabee whispered the translation to Andy Winslow. “You murdered my brother.”

  Lisalotte Schmidt carefully aimed the Beretta, pointing it at Konrad’s heart.

  Konrad lunged for the Walther but Lisalotte Schmidt’s second shot sent him reeling backward. The piano bench caught him behind the knees and he crashed to the floor. A final syllable hissed from his lips. “Sieg …”

  Lisalotte Schmidt hissed, “Mein Bruder ist revenged.”

  Andy Winslow said, “There’s no need to translate that, Jacob.”

  About the Author

  Mike Ashley is a full-time writer, editor and researcher with almost a hundred books to his credit. He has compiled over fifty Mammoth books including The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries, The Mammoth Book of Historical Detectives and The Mammoth Book of Locked Room Mysteries and Impossible Crimes. He has also written a biography of Algernon Blackwood, Starlight Man. He lives in Kent with his wife and three cats and when he gets the time he likes to go for long walks.

  By the Same Author

  Past volumes in this series (edited by Mike Ashley)

  The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits

  The Mammoth Book of Historical Detectives

  The Mammoth Book of Classical Whodunnits

  The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

  The Mammoth Book of Shakespearean Whodunnits

  The Mammoth Book of Shakespearean Detectives

  The Mammoth Book of Royal Whodunits

  The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits (Volume 2)

  (US: The Mammoth Book of More Historical Whodunnits)