by Bob Neir
“Think Hauser knows?”
No one said anything.
The men stood silent. As their lifeline sailed away, they understood they faced simple choices - prevail, surrender or die. Then, too, there remained that unspoken tomorrow, or the next day; a time all too soon that the Navy must rise to strike them from the Missouri. And, offer no quarter short of immediate surrender.
“That scumbag, Schiller.” Graves broke the silence. “Five bucks says the Helga don’t make it out of the Yard.”
“You’re on, “Harper sniffed.
Newby bit, “What makes you so sure?”
Harper said, “Why should Schiller cop out to the Navy? There’s nothing in it for him. With his evil mind, he’d wait ‘til they got back to Seattle, grab the Captain’s dough, and take off.”
“He has to take the Captain out first, dummy.”
Newby hinted, “I’d like to be there. Schiller will have his hands full.” They laughed. “Suppose he succeeds, where would that leave us? We sit here and rot?”
“The Captain will turn us in, for sure,” Madden looked up slowly. “Beside, Schiller already knows the Captain’s gonna pay him off. So, what’s your point?”
Harper added, “Maybe, Schiller doesn’t know the Commander paid him the $55,000?”
Madden replied, “You can bet he does.”
“No bet,” Maxie cut in. “Schiller can smell money.”
“Who’s covering my original bet?” Graves asked.
“I said, I would,” Harper chimed in.
“If you’re wrong,” Madden observed, casting his eyes skyward. “The Navy’ll be all over us in minutes.”
“Prepare to repel boarders,” Newby said as he climbed to the top of the turret. “Good bet, Harper,” Newby reported. “The Helga is steaming out the inlet.”
“Schiller’s in no hurry,” Trent remarked. “He’ll deliver the message. The world will soon know of our mission.” Trent turned to Madden, “How’s the coverage from the gun tubs?”
“Graves and I agree,” Madden reported. “There’s a blind spot we need to cover. We should station somebody up top with a rifle.” Trent looked at his watch. “It’ll be dark in two hours. The City offices will be closed. Not much risk tonight. At best, if Schiller gets anyone’s attention, I expect the City will alert the Navy to check out the message. One man on watch for tonight should do: Newby, take first turn. The first sign of movement anywhere we go on full alert.” Newby grinned and puffed out his chest.
“Madden, as I expect they’ll cut our power, we better rotate the turret tonight.” “Can do!” Madden replied, rubbing his chin and frowning. “We could go manual, if we had too, but it’s easier using the juice.”
“How about manual loading, Harper?”
“The shell is ready to ram home. Four power bags on the ready. On automatic, we could do two shells a minute.”
“Maxie, about those hand-held radios?” Maxie lit up a cigarette, inhaled, and coughed harshly. “Sorry, Tony,” he apologized, and then answered. “They don’t work inside all this metal, but if we stick the antennas out, they work great. We can use the turret as a command post. Either Newby or I can run it.”
“Can we pick up any local newscasts?”
“You bet., T.V. too! “
“So, we wait.” Trent looked at his watch. It was 1847, “The Helga should be docking by 2000. Good time to get some shut-eye.”
* * *
Harry’s Cove lay quiet. The Cove had cleared of small boats, sailed to get a jump on the next blow. Sam Simons sat by the stove warming his hands. The light through the glass door reflected across his features, a rather somber look etched his face. He turned to Trent and said, “I never met a luckier man. How you got that far without a foul-up is beyond me? A clever scheme, sure, maybe, too damn clever.” Trent watched a small muscle moving busily at the corner of Simons’ mouth. “Ah! But, the imponderables, the mines, and the sand traps yet to come. The law of averages will have its pound of flesh, somewhere; something will go wrong. Count on it. It always does, it never fails, and when this one goes wrong, more than fat will be in the fire.”
“I saw my mission as justified, God must have ordained that I succeed,” Trent smiled, tongue in cheek.
“Fat chance. Just dumb luck, if you ask me. I can just see you typing that note. Mayor Grille jumped on me right off, as if I’m supposed to have answers for every damn thing that goes wrong in town, even before it happens.”
“I would have given my eye teeth to see Grille’s face,” Trent added, laughing.
“It wasn’t funny then,” Simons chuckled.
“So, you got involved?” Trent inquired.
“You’re telling me it’s my turn for true confessions,” asked Simons, a smile cracked his face. “Yep! From the minute you walked into the Mayor’s office.”
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 18
“What the hell is this?” Mayor Joe Grille, Mayor of Seattle, stared at a neat, type written note. His leather chair squeaked harshly as he abruptly leaned forward. He re-read the message then brusquely tossed it to the floor.
“Heddy brought it in,” Murial, his secretary, said matter-of-factly, picking up the note and slipping it back under his nose. “She said some character dropped it off at the reception desk. The seal was broken, so Heddy read it.”
“Another crackpot. This damn job gets more aggravating…”
“Did you read it?”
“Of course, I did! That’s only the fifth screwball message this week.” The Mayor ranted, snatching at the note. “I’d rather get hate mail, stuff I can round-file and forget. Let people get it off their chest, but this…”
“The guy said it was for real then he took off.”
“Damn it! Get Sam up here.” Just then, a medium height, somewhat stocky, and not unpleasant looking man, with brown hair flecked with gray, stormed unannounced through the doorway. He had a business-like air about him.
“Sorry for busting in, Murial,” Chief of Police, Sam Simons apologized.
“You must read minds. The Mayor’s pretty upset.”
“I heard about the note,” the Chief replied.
“How did you…?” her expression quizzical.
“Spies are everywhere…” He pressed his finger to his lip. She laughed and left.
“Sam,” the Mayor bellowed, “get in here and shut that door. Look at this.” The Chief took the note and read it aloud.
Dear Mayor;
We want $30,000,000 in cash by 0500 Friday morning or the City of Seattle will be shelled. If you raise the funds before that time, contact us on radio frequency 1245 for further instructions. Otherwise, we suggest you clear the area around the Smith Tower.
Sam Simons exhaled slowly, and then eased back into a leather chair. Its coolness chilled him as he silently read the note. The loonies, zanies, and crackpots he had dealt with over his thirty-year police career usually meant no harm: ninety-nine out of a hundred threats came to naught. But this, he lifted his head slowly, alarm bells jangled in his head.
“Sam. For Christ’s sake, say something!”
“Push the button and get Murial in here,” Simons ordered, his voice quiet, but firm. The Mayor complied and Murial appeared. “Murial, have Heddy come up here, please.”
A short, nervous elderly woman soon appeared. Her eyes were fearful, had she done something wrong, she wondered?
“What did he look like Heddy?” the Chief asked soothingly. Heddy replied, “Grungy, I’d say, and he had a small, wiry, weasel-like face. He looked like he had been in a fight and lost. Very nervous, he kept licking his lips.”
“May I?” the Chief whispered, picked up the Mayor’s phone, and dialed. “Don, get up here. Yeah! The Mayor’s office.” A tall, thin man with an unkempt shock of brown hair entered. With pad and pencil, the tools of his trade, Heddy repeated her description. His pencil moved in rapid strokes over the pad as he listened.
The Mayor’s office door flew open: Murial, a
ll a flutter entered and quickly closed the door behind her.
“What is it now, Murial?” The Mayor grunted.
“Hiram’s on his way up. He’s heard.”
“Oh! Shit. I need Chitterman like I need a dose of bubonic plague. How in the hell did the 10th floor hear about this? I just found out myself. The damn leaks I gotta put up with in this place. That City Council has a pipeline right up my anus.” The door opened and the President of the City Council burst in. Hiram Chitterman was twice Grille’s age, badly overweight and balding, wearing a rumpled wool suit that needed care. Brown socks and black shoes were his trademark. He looked like one of the Smith Brothers off the box of cough drops. A slight stoop disguised his height; a potbelly made him look rotund.
“I just heard, Joe. Well, what are you going to do?”
“What the hell do you mean, what am I going to do? Christ! Hiram, sit down. It’s probably just a joke, a poor one, at that. Just another one of those damn crank letters.” Chitterman loosened his tie, opened his collar, eased his belt several notches and slumped heavily on the sofa, it groaned under his weight. “Sam, what do you know about this?”
“No more than you do, Hiram.” Simons turned away. “Got anything yet, Don?”
“Yeah! Heddy has got a good eye,” he said, holding up his sketch. “That’s a remarkable likeness,” Heddy blurted out. “Put hair on his face and he does look like a weasel,” Murial said, embarrassed at her own abruptness. “Anybody recognize this guy?” No one answered. “I took out the facial bumps and bruises,” Don said, holding it up.
“Take it downstairs, Don, and show it around the Department,” Simons ordered.
“Well, what now?” Chitterman demanded, nervously turning to Simons. Simons settled back into the leather chair, glanced at Chitterman and tugged his ear, “the note says they’re going to shell the City. Christ! How can they do that? You can’t fire a shell over twenty-five miles: and the Smith Tower is their target. And where would they get a gun, anyway? There’s no active military base anywhere within that range. Why the Smith Tower? Why wouldn’t they just plant a bomb? It’s easier.”
“The Smith Tower???” Chitterman cried, “Oh! My God! I didn’t know…”
“They threaten to blow it up at 0500 tomorrow, Hiram.” The Mayor tossed him the note. “Here, see for yourself.” Chitterman read it slowly, his black face fading towards white. “Better fix yourself a drink, Hiram, you look like you could use one,” the Mayor chided. Chitterman nodded and moved unsteadily towards the bar. “Anyone else?” With no takers, he picked up a glass and nearly dropped it. He poured in straight scotch and clinked in the ice. “Warm scotch: it’s not civilized.”
The phone buzzer blared. “Don’s on his way up. He says they have a make on the guy.” Simons turned his head towards the door, his face relieved as Don entered. “Detectives Jim Frances and Annette Gleese know the guy.”
“His name is Armand Schiller,” Annette spoke up. He’s a small time hood, a go-between who’s been pulling marijuana off the coast and shipping it inland. We think he’s setting up a boat named the Helga for his next shipment. We think he’s used her before. A Captain Larsen owns and sails her. Otherwise, Schiller is real low-life and would sell his mother to a sweat shop if he could cut a buck for himself.”
Jim added, “We can’t figure this one out. Don mentioned extortion. Extortion is not in his pattern. He has been in prison three times, short terms. Got a record a yard long, minor stuff. I guess he appreciates his limitations and leaves the more subtle forms of crime alone. Robbery - preferably with violence - is his forte. Extortion? We doubt it, but he could be moving up. The Helga could be tied in somehow. It’s a pretty thin lead.”
“But a lead, nonetheless,” Simons cast a worried look. “Put out an APB on Schiller. Check out the Helga. Find out fast if this extortion note is for real.” He handed them the note as they hurried from the office.
“Satisfied, Hiram?” the Mayor hissed.
Hiram Chitterman sweated as he clutched at his drink as if it was ready to slip from his fingers. Joe Grille chortled at his obvious discomfort. That turnabout was fair play was obvious on the Mayor’s face as he usually found himself at the brunt of Chitterman’s political opportunism. Sam Simons felt the tension between the two. It was strange, almost unnerving how they would clash. He didn’t understand politics, and he liked politicians even less. But, he couldn’t stand to watch the Council president whimper, fret, and turn morose, only to emerge in a fit of righteous indignation. Chitterman was as predictable as an atomic clock, Simons mused as he lit a cigar.
“Can’t we do more?” Hiram asked, drawing himself up. “Sure, Hiram. You go find thirty million bucks. Let the Council sink its teeth into that…instead of my butt, for a change.” “Thirty million dollars!!!” Hiram’s face turned ashen.
The Mayor cast Simons a slow smile, then leaned back and enjoyed Hiram’s reaction. “Well, you asked didn’t you?” he pressed. “The Council controls the purse strings. Here’s your big chance to loosen up a little. Do some good!” The Mayor laughed: Chitterman pouted. Simons puffed vigorously on his cigar. Political carnage was not his cup of tea, it left him queasy. He deliberately stared at his watch. It was almost noon. Solving murders, assaults and burglaries were easy, but screwballs…and politicians? Without notice, Simons left the office.
* * *
Sam Simons rushed past Murial. His teeth were clenched down on the stub of an unlit cigar. Murial moved to greet him, but decided the better of it. He was visibly upset and not easily ruffled. She closed the door behind him. Gleese and Frances were waiting as Simons had ordered them straight to the Mayor’s office.
“Better get Hiram, too,” Simons suggested.
“Hell. Hiram’s all thumbs and toes. I had all I could do to get him out of here this morning. Can’t we discuss this without him?” the Mayor pleaded.
“It’s for real, Joe!”
“Jesus! Nobody’s going to tag a screw-up on me...Murial, get Hiram up here,” the Mayor hollered through the closed door…they waited for a puffing Chitterman. “Hiram, you’re the only guy I know who puffs after an elevator ride, even from the 10th to the 11th floor.” Chitterman wheezed too hard to realize he was the butt of a joke.
“Let’s have it, Sam,” the Mayor begged.
“I’m going to let Jim and Annette report.”
“Well, Mayor,” Jim started, “we located the Helga and Captain Larsen. The Helga got in last night around 2130. The Captain says he was chartered to take a work crew and their gear out to the Missouri. The Navy is getting her ready to tow to Long Beach. The Captain figured out what they were really up to when they stole shells off a Navy ammo barge. They held both Schiller and the Captain prisoners until last night. He says a guy named Anthony Trent asked Schiller to deliver the message.”
Gleese added, “The Captain said he didn’t know any more and wouldn’t admit to working for Schiller. He said he didn’t know why Schiller was on the Helga, but that Schiller wasn’t one of them.”
“Where is the Captain now?” the Mayor asked.
“Downstairs. We brought him in. We’re getting his statement.”
“Where’s Schiller?”
“We put out the APB, but no response yet.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes! Those were 16-inch shells.”
The Mayor glared at the Simons and jumped up, “Jesus! Get this Schiller. Fast, or heads will roll.” Facing a calamity, Simons’ face flushed; he nodded acquiescence as he bit his tongue. The Mayor spun to the Council President, catching him completely off guard. “Well, Hiram. Have you got the money?” He allowed a little sarcasm to filter into his tone. Rebuked, Chitterman’s jaw dropped.
“You said this was a joke.”
“Does it sound like a joke, Hiram?”
Sam Simons, his stomach knotted up, slowly got up from his chair and stepped to the bar. He poured himself three fingers of whiskey. The chill moistness of the glass felt calming
against his palm. He needed answers, good solid answers. Simons reasoned it was not a bomb that had to be disarmed, but a human being.
* * *
In the early 1920’s, the room’s decor would be typical in a public building. Nowadays, it held all the appeal of a reclaimed storeroom. Hot and stuffy, a funk of weeks old coffee and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. The ceilings and walls had degenerated from white to a hard to describe dingy beige. A half-hearted attempt had been made at repainting. Worn spots in drab, flecked, steel-gray linoleum floor showed concrete. Police officers sat and talked in nervous tones. Ice-cold cans of pop, glistening with moisture, stacked on a small table, quickly disappeared. The door clicked open and Chief Sam Simons strode briskly into the room. His cold eyes flittered briefly across the assembly of intent faces, as if assuring himself there were none missing. He sat down heavily and gestured for the others to follow. He cleared his throat, “We have a tough task ahead of us.”
A large, colored, gridded map imprinted with a black circle was uncovered. The circle marked the range limit of the Missouri 16-inch guns. A large red dot at its center pinpointed the Missouri. After the room settled down, Simons read the extortion note out loud. Officers Jim Frances and Annette Gleese debriefed the group on what was known as of Thursday 2116. Jim looked at his watched, and said, “Sorry, 2117.”
“Are you sure?” a ripple of laughter transmitted itself around the room.
