by Alan Glenn
“Let me help you with the tip,” he said, and Walter’s face colored, but he said nothing as Sam pulled out his wallet. On the sidewalk, Sam said, “Walter, no promises. But I’ll see what I can do if there’s a crackdown. Now. Here’s a question for you: Do any of your refugee friends have tattoos on their wrists? Tattoos of numbers?”
“No, I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why do you ask?”
“I can’t say,” Sam said. “Sorry. But I’ve really got to go now.”
“Very good, Sam. It … it was a pleasure.”
A shiny black Buick wagon with whitewalls went by, two men in the front seat. It seemed as though Walter shivered, standing next to Sam. “A Black Maria, on its rounds,” the older man said. “Such evil men out there, to drive and use such a wagon.”
“Yeah,” Sam said to his tenant. “Such men.” He quickly crossed the street and almost bumped into another man. This time the sign said EXPERIENCE IN PLUMBING & HEATING. PLEASE HELP. CHILDREN HAVE NO SHOES. The man looked up at him, chin quivering, cheeks covered with stubble, and Sam murmured a quick “excuse me” and briskly walked back to his own job.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Outside the City Hall and police station, a slight man was pacing back and forth, stopping when he saw Sam approach. He was dressed in a dark brown suit that had been the height of fashion about ten years ago; it had exposed threads at the cuffs. A soiled red bow tie was tied too tight about the shirt collar. The man nodded, licking his lips quick, like a cat that had been caught stealing cream. His face was sallow, as though he had spent most of his life indoors, which he no doubt had, since the man before Sam was one of the best forgers in the state.
Kenny Whalen said, “Inspector, please, a moment of your time?”
“What’s the matter, Kenny? Still upset that I arrested you last week?”
“Price of the business I’m in, including paying for my bail. But please, a word in private?”
“Just for a minute. I’ve got to get back to my desk.” Sam led the forger down an alleyway and stopped by an overflowing trash bin. He said, “Kenny, I still don’t know why you were so stupid to forge those checks for your brother-in-law. The idiot tried to cash them at the same bank, all at the same time. He gave you up about sixty seconds after I arrested him.”
Kenny grimaced. “If one has a shrew of a wife, one does what one can to soothe the home fires.”
“All right, what do you want?”
“What I want … Inspector, you have me charged with six counts of passing a forged instrument. If I’m convicted on all six counts, I’m looking at five to six years in the state prison in Concord.”
“You should have thought about that earlier.”
“True, but if I may … if I were only charged with five counts of passing a forged instrument instead of six, then my charge would be of a lower class. If convicted on all five counts, I’ll be facing one to three years, and if I’m lucky, at the county jail across the street. Not the state prison in Concord. Easier for friends and family to visit, you understand.”
“I still don’t know what you’re driving at, Kenny.”
“You’re a man of the world, you know how things work. If, for example, one of the charges were to be dropped or forgotten, it would make a world of difference for me and my family. And in return, well, consideration could be made. Favors and expressions of gratitude could be expressed. And, um, so forth.”
“This is your lucky day. I’ve decided to review your charges, just like you’ve asked. And you know what?”
“What?” He asked it eagerly.
“I’ve decided not to charge you with attempted bribery along with everything else. Forget it, Kenny. Leave me alone.” He started out of the alley, and Kenny muttered something. Sam turned and said, “What was that?”
The forger looked defiant. “I said you’ve got a price, just like everyone else in that station! Least you could do is tell me what it is.”
“Wrong cop, wrong day. Can’t be bought.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah, take care of yourself, too, Kenny,” Sam said. “Drop me a postcard from Concord if you get a chance.” Out of the alleyway, the sunlight felt good as he went up the police station’s front steps. He should have felt a bit of pride for turning down a bribe—and this hadn’t been the first time on the force he had done that—but the small victory tasted sour.
The house, a voice inside him whispered, remember the house …
* * *
Up on the second floor, he saw a chilling sight: the city marshal sitting at Sam’s desk. Harold Hanson was leaning back, hands across his plump belly, looking up at him from behind horn-rimmed glasses. Mrs. Walton was at her desk, lips thin, no doubt distressed at seeing the order of the ages upended by the city marshal sitting at a mere inspector’s desk.
“Inspector Miller,” Hanson said. “There’s a gentleman from the FBI in my office, along with another … gentleman. They’re here to see you.”
“About what, sir?”
“I don’t know. What I do know is one of Hoover’s bright boys, with another bright boy accompanying him, are here. You’re going to use my office, talk to them, cooperate, and when they depart, I expect a full report.”
A voice inside him started to nag. Do it now, it said. Tell the marshal about your brother. Don’t try to cover it up. Give up Tony and you can salvage your career, your life, your future. You can tell the FBI you were surprised last night, which is why you didn’t give up Tony earlier. Now, the voice said, more insistent. Give him up now and maybe they won’t dig more, find out about the Underground Railroad station running out of your basement, and all will be good, and—
“I understand what you want, sir,” Sam said.
“Good. Now get your ass in there and do what you have to do so I can have my goddamn office back.”
Sam hesitated. Could he trust Hanson to contact Sarah, tell her to grab the boy and leave town before the FBI shipped them off to Utah in a boxcar? And if he asked his boss to do something like that, wasn’t he admitting he was guilty and—
Could he trust Hanson? Or anyone?
Sam walked to the door. He didn’t bother knocking. He just opened it and went in, keeping his head high.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
He entered the marshal’s office into a dense fugue of cigarette smoke. One of the visitors was sitting in Hanson’s chair. He was a ruddy-faced, large-framed man with dark wavy hair. He had on a loud gray and white pin-striped suit that said flashy big city to Sam, and his black wide-brimmed hat was on the marshal’s desk. Sitting in one of the captain’s chairs was a second man. His suit was plain dark gray, and his blond hair was fine and closely trimmed. Unblinking light blue eyes looked out from behind round wire-rimmed glasses. His own black hat was in his lap.
“Inspector Miller?” asked the man in the pin-striped suit. He stood up from Hanson’s leather chair, holding out a hand.
“That’s right,” Sam replied, feeling the strong grip as he shook the man’s hand.
“Special Agent Jack LaCouture, FBI, assigned to the Boston office.” LaCouture’s voice was Southern—no doubt Louisianan, for the Kingfish made sure a lot of his boys were sprinkled throughout the federal government.
“Glad to meet you,” Sam said, knowing his tone of voice was expressing just the opposite. LaCouture motioned to his companion, who stood up. Sam froze, knowing the mild-looking guy, who resembled a grocery clerk or something equally bland, must be with the labor camp bureau of the Department of the Interior. In a very few seconds, he knew, everything was going to the shits.
So be it, he thought.
But Tony wasn’t mentioned at all. Instead, the FBI man said, “Allow me to introduce my traveling companion. Hans Groebke, from the German consulate in Boston.”
Groebke gave a brisk nod, and his hand was cool as Sam did the usual grip-and-release. Sam made out the faint scent of cologne.
“A pleasure,” the German said in a thick accent, and he
turned to LaCouture and rattled off something quick in German. LaCouture listened and said to Sam, “Hans says he’s glad to make your acquaintance and hopes you will be able to assist him in this matter. He also apologizes for his rough English. He doesn’t sprechen the King’s language that well, you know?”
They all sat down and Sam said, “What kind of matter are you interested in?”
LaCouture answered, “The dead man by your railroad tracks the other night. We’d like to know how your investigation is proceeding.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, feeling his head spin: the body, not Tony, not the Underground Railroad, that was why the FBI was here! “Why is the German consulate concerned about a dead man?”
LaCouture smiled, revealing firm and white teeth. “First of all, it appears your body may be that of a German citizen, perhaps here illegally. Second, the German consulate doesn’t give a crap about the body. But Herr Groebke does, as a member of the Geheime Staatspolizei.”
“The Geheime … I’m sorry, what’s that again?”
“Geheime Staatspolizei,” LaCouture repeated patiently. “The Secret State Police. More commonly known as the Gestapo. Hans is stationed at the Boston consulate.”
How many lurid newspaper stories had Sam read and potboiler movies had he seen, all about the sinister Gestapo in Berlin and Vienna and Paris and London, keeping track of illegals, Jews, anybody opposed to the Nazi regime? Dark stories of torture, of the midnight knock on the door, to be dragged out of your home and never seen again. The Gestapo had replaced the bogeyman to scare little boys and girls at night.
But Groebke looked like an accountant. Nothing like the ten-foot monster in a black leather trench coat, slaughtering innocents across a half-dozen occupied countries in Europe.
Sam said, “I didn’t know the Gestapo were here in the States.”
“Sure,” LaCouture said. “All the embassies and consulates have the Gestapo kicking around. The long arm of Hitler reaches lots of places, and there’s a fair number of Germans who live here. The Gestapo likes to keep their eyes on everything, make sure they’re good little Germans, even in the States.”
Groebke said something in German to the FBI man, and LaCouture snapped something back. “Sorry, Inspector. Hans is a bit impatient. Krauts like everything to be neat and tidy and all official. So, let’s cut to the chase: Did you have a body pop up here two days ago?”
“Yes, we did. An old man, no identification. A homicide. Found near railroad tracks down by a cove off the harbor.”
“Any suspects?”
“No,” Sam said.
“Did he have any luggage with him?” LaCouture asked.
“No.”
“Any papers or photographs?”
“Nothing.”
LaCouture translated the last few answers for the German. Then he said, “How was the body found?”
“A hobo walking the tracks found it. He also thought he saw someone in the area who might be of interest, but I haven’t been able to recontact him.”
LaCouture rattled off another string of German and then said, “Go on.”
Sam looked at the blank, smooth face of the German and thought, Sure, an accountant, a bank accountant who could toss a family from their home for one late mortgage payment without blinking an eye.
He said, “That’s about it. No other witnesses, not much information. I think the body—”
LaCouture interrupted. “I’m sure you were quite thorough. But from this moment forward, this matter is now under the jurisdiction of the FBI. All right, Detective?”
“Inspector,” Sam corrected dryly. “My position within the department is inspector, not detective.”
“My apologies, Inspector.” The FBI guy smilied without a trace of remorse. “We’ll be talking to your local medical examiner later today, and we want a copy of your report.”
“You’ll get what you want,” Sam said, “but I’d like to know why you’re so interested in this body. And how did you find out about it?”
“You sent a telex to the state police,” LaCouture said. “We get copies of all those kinds of telexes. The Germans had been looking for this particular character for reasons they’ve kept to themselves.”
“So you can’t say who he is and why he was here illegally?”
“Even if I could, I won’t, because it’s now none of your business,” LaCouture said. “Because we believe the body is that of a German illegal, it’s a diplomatic matter, and because the investigating arm of the German government is the Gestapo, it’s a Gestapo matter. And because we don’t like the Gestapo traipsing across our fair land without an escort, it’s also an FBI matter. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite clear, but I still want to know—”
LaCouture folded his large hands, and Sam saw the man’s nails gleamed with polish. “You seem to be a curious man. So am I. And I’m curious how a patrol sergeant like you became a police inspector while your older brother is serving a six-year sentence in a labor camp. A labor camp in New York, correct? The one near Fort Drum? The Iroquois camp?”
The German looked like he was enjoying seeing the two Americans sparring. Sam felt his mouth go dry. So Tony’s name was going to come up after all. “Yes,” Sam said. “My brother is serving a six-year sentence. For organizing a union. Used to be a time when that wasn’t illegal.”
“There was a time when booze was legal, became illegal, and then became legal again. Who the hell can keep track nowadays?” LaCouture chuckled.
Sam looked at the German and said, “You’ll get my report. I’ll have Mrs. Walton type up a copy, should be ready in under an hour. But I still want to know something.”
“I don’t care what you want to know, I don’t have anything more to say to you.”
“The question’s not for you,” Sam said. “It’s for the Gestapo, if that’s all right.”
LaCouture glanced at Groebke. Then he said, “Go ahead, Inspector. But make it snappy.”
Sam said, “This man was half starved. And there were numbers tattooed on his wrist. The numerals nine-one-one-two-eight-three. Can he explain that?”
LaCouture spoke a sentence or two to the German, who nodded in comprehension. Groebke said something slow and definite, and LaCouture told Sam, “He said he doesn’t know the man’s eating habits. As to the tattoo, perhaps someday you will be in Berlin, at Gestapo headquarters at Eight Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, and then he may tell you. But not here, and not now.”
“Not much of an answer,” Sam remarked.
LaCouture motioned to the German, stood up, and grabbed his hat. “Only one you’re going to get today. Now, this has been cheerful and all that, but you mind not wasting our fucking time any longer?”
Sam could feel his face burning. “No. I don’t mind.”
The German made a short bow. “Herr Inspector, danke. Thank you. Goodbye.”
“Yeah. So long.”
* * *
After they left, Marshal Hanson came right in and reclaimed his seat with a look of distaste that somebody else could have occupied his place of honor and polluted his office with cigarette smoke. He folded his hands and said, “Well?”
“The FBI guy’s name is LaCouture. His buddy there is from the Gestapo. Groebke. They say the body from the other night was a German illegal.”
“So they’ve taken the case from you. Now a federal matter. Good.”
“Good?” Sam asked. “What’s good about it? They waltzed right in here and took my case away … a homicide! You know how the FBI operates. We’re never going to hear anything more about it.”
“We’re cooperating,” Hanson said gruffly. “Which is the smart thing to do, so we don’t piss off the wrong people and the FBI and Long’s Legionnaires leave us alone. I know this was your first homicide, and you wanted to see it through. But I also know what your caseload is like. If you spend more time on your caseload and less time worrying about a matter now belonging to the Germans and the feds, then I’ll be happy, the peop
le of Portsmouth will be happy, and so will the police commission. Got it?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Fine. Now, about the other night. I was glad to see you at the Party meeting. Have you thought about what I said—about becoming more active?”
“No, I really haven’t. With this John Doe investigation, I haven’t considered it much.”
“Do you think I was joking, Sam? This is no longer a request. Soon I’ll be putting in your name for the county steering committee. There’s a vote, but it’s just a formality. And I expect a return favor from you concerning your father-in-law.”
Sam felt as if the day and everything else were slipping away from him; he thought about what Sean had said. Nats versus Staties. “But the mayor, he’s said something similar about me—”
“Divided loyalties, Sam? Or do I have to remind you who signs your time sheet?”
“No, you don’t have to remind me.”
“I didn’t think I’d have to,” Hanson said, looking triumphant. “What’s ahead for you?”
“I told the FBI they could have copies of my reports later today. And that Mrs. Walton would type them up for them.”
Now Hanson didn’t look happy. “Since when you do start making commitments for my secretary?”
Sam stood up and pushed the chair back toward the desk. The legs squeaked gratingly against the wooden planks. “Since you told me to cooperate, that’s when,” Sam replied.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sam spent a few minutes at his desk, staring at the piles of paperwork. Then, restless and irritable, he headed for the stairs. Mrs. Walton—frowning because of the extra typing—called, “Inspector?”
“Off for a walk,” he called back.
She smirked. “A walk.”
“Sure. Put it in your log. W-A-L-K. A walk.”
He went down the wooden stairs two at a time, through the lobby, and then outside. It was cloudy, and the salt smell from the harbor was strong.
