by Alan Glenn
“I have,” Sam said, sipping the coffee. Sean had made it the way he liked it: black, with two sugars.
Sean nodded. “No doubt dealing with the forces of darkness. I’m surprised you didn’t go home and take a bath after spending time with those two G-men.”
“Only one was a G-man,” Sam said. “The other was— Oh, I get it. A joke. FBI guy and Gestapo guy. Both G-men.”
Sean raised his mug to his lips. “So now we both have something in common, having spent time with these G-men.”
Sam swung around in his chair, glad Mrs. Walton wasn’t back yet. “They’ve talked to you, too?”
“I’m not sure if ‘talk’ is the right word,” Sean answered. “This was more like requests made, requests complied with. The FBI man wanted some files, which I happily passed over to him. And he seemed pretty eager to share what he had with his goose-stepping friend.”
Sam said, “What kind of files?”
“Hmmm,” Sean said, sipping. “Anybody else in this building, I would say none of your business. But since you’re more than the average cop, I will tell you this. Personnel files.”
“I thought the FBI would be looking into active cases. Not personnel files.”
Sean laughed. “That’s a good one. Sam, why would the FBI give a shit about criminal cases at the Portsmouth Police Department? Drunk driving? Hookers? Break-ins? Oh, I know they’ve taken away your homicide, but the real crimes the FBI and their German friends are interested in are the new ones: disloyalty, lack of enthusiasm for the new order, thought crimes like that.”
Sam heard footsteps, saw Mrs. Walton ambling her way back. He leaned over to Sean. “So. Whose personnel files were they asking for?”
“You really want to know?”
“Of course.”
Sean smiled. “Yours.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
That night Sam and Sarah went out to the movies. He was eager to slip into a make-believe world for a while, a world without the FBI or Gestapo or the Underground Railroad or rats or the Party. Sarah had tsk-tsked over the slash the knife had made in his coat sleeve, and had promised to mend it later. Still, Jesus, what a day.
Though a small city, Portsmouth boasted three movie theaters, and tonight they went to the Colonial, up on Congress Street. Throughout Sarah’s pre-movie dinner—fish stew—he kept up a steady patter of conversation, playing the good husband, playing the good father (definitely not playing the rat!), though he had hardly any appetite at all. He had a cold feeling about the meeting with the FBI earlier today, about how close he had seemed to losing it all because of Tony. If that wasn’t enough, another Underground Railroad passenger was going to spend the night in their basement. Talk about living dangerously.
And then there was that train, ready to depart Portsmouth, to drop off another load of prisoners, where there was always room in other trains for one more dissident, one more family.
During dinner Sarah had seemed more cheerful, as though determined to gloss over what was going to happen in their home later that night. And when he had mentioned the visit by the FBI and the Gestapo, Sarah paused at that, ladle held in the air. “Gestapo? Here?”
“That’s right,” he had said, buttering a piece of bread. “Assigned to the consulate in Boston. It seems my dead man was from Germany, here illegally. So it’s not my case anymore. The feds took it away.”
Sarah glanced at Toby and dipped the ladle in the stew. “It’s impossible to believe the Gestapo are here in Portsmouth. It’s bad enough to have Long’s Legionnaires here, but the Gestapo …”
“That’s what the papers and newsreels say. But this German didn’t look that evil to me. More like a paper shuffler, a cop like me.”
Sarah shook her head. “No. You’re wrong, Sam. I don’t care what he looks like. The whole bunch of them—Nazis, Gestapo, SS—they’re pure evil. Mrs. Brownstein at the school, some of the stories she’s told us about what they did to her relatives over in Holland …”
Sam had raised his eyebrows, glancing at Toby taking in every word, and Sarah had changed the subject. Then they had left, with their tenant Walter in charge as a babysitter. Toby had that devil look in his eyes. Sam hoped Walter was in a mood to be tested by an eight-year-old.
Now they were sitting in the darkened theater, most of the men nearby smoking, a paper bag of greasy popcorn between them, Sarah cuddled against his shoulder. Tonight was a Judy Garland musical, and though Sam enjoyed being out, he had to work to pay attention. The FBI—and the Gestapo!—were looking at his personnel files. For what? Not much was in there, nothing that the FBI probably already didn’t know, but maybe the Kraut wanted to learn more about Sam and—
He was suddenly poked in his ribs. “What?” he whispered to Sarah. “What’s wrong?”
“I said something, and you’re not listening to me,” she whispered back.
“Oh, sorry. Mind drifted. What did you say?”
“I said I hope Walter does a better job babysitting. Last time he fell asleep on the couch and Toby tied his shoelaces together.”
Sam said, “At least he’s free. You remember what happened with that bobby-soxer Claire. She charged us two dollars, brought her boyfriend over, and Toby got a quick lesson in make-out sessions about five years ahead of schedule.”
“Shhh,” someone in the audience scolded, and then the films began.
There were a couple of previews of coming attractions, and then a Bugs Bunny short, and Sam felt himself unwind as he joined Sarah and the others in laughing at the antics of that wascally wabbit. Then came the familiar trumpet tunes of Movietone, showing the bloody world in its black-and-white glory.
Up on the screen, thick smoke was rising up over a village, and a line of panzer tanks was crossing a field. The narrator said, “As spring continues and summer beckons in the fields of Russia, fresh fighting continues while German and Russian tank divisions grapple once again for supremacy. The third year of fighting in Eastern Europe continues afresh, with most observers predicting another fierce struggle for each side to gain the upper hand. Unless there is a dramatic change in the fortunes for Nazi Germany or Red Russia, experts say to expect another year of bloodshed before the snows come.”
As the narration continued, the familiar newsreel shots of tanks on the move, Stuka aircraft dive-bombing, and German soldiers on the march were repeated, but Sam noticed that now, as opposed to during their blitzkrieg victories in ’40 and ’41, the Krauts looked exhausted, faces dirty and grim.
Trumpet tone, change of view, showing more troops, this time Japanese, swarming across rice paddies. “The Empire of the Rising Sun,” the narrator went on, “continues its expansion west as it fights to secure some sort of stability in Manchuria and China. Forces loyal to Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek and Communist leader Mao Tse-tung continue their guerrilla warfare, making sure the soldiers of the Japanese emperor battle for every inch of ground lost in China.”
Sarah whispered, “I’m so sick of this foreign news. Let’s see the movie already.” He squeezed her leg as a familiar cherubic face popped up on the screen, to the assortment of scattered boos and a few cheers. A rotund man who was smoking a cigar walked through a hotel lobby through a barrage of camera flashes and questions from a mob of reporters. The man held up two fingers in the shape of a V.
“Former British prime minister Winston Churchill, in New York City this week, continues to meet with supporters of the so-called British government in exile.”
Churchill stopped before a set of radio microphones and said in a tired, lisping tone, “We are fighting to save the whole world from the pestilence of Nazi tyranny and in defense of all that is most sacred to man. This is no war of domination or imperial aggrandizement or material gain; no war to shut any country out of its sunlight and means of progress. It is a war, viewed in its inherent quality to establish, on impregnable rocks, the rights of the individual, and it is a war to establish and revive the stature of man.”
Another trumpet tone, a
nother switch, and even more cheers and a few boos as the President appeared on the screen, shaking hands with a dour-faced man wearing formal clothes.
“In our nation’s capitol, President Huey Long completed discussions this week with the German ambassador over future relations between the American republic and the Third Reich. Neither man had anything to say for reporters, but word around the capitol is that a new era of peace and understanding lays ahead for American democracy and the Third Reich.”
There was a quick jump in the newsreel to a bald man in a suit, hurrying past photographers in a polished corridor. “Also in Washington, Treasury Secretary Henry Morgenthau was again unsuccessful in his attempts to expand the number of Jewish refugees allowed into this country by Congress.”
A shout from a male in the audience: “Leave the kikes where they belong!” and a couple of others laughed; Sam sat still, embarrassed at the outburst.
Another jump to a number of gray-suited men with matching gray faces, standing in front of some government office.
“From our friends in the north, an unexpected trade delegation from the embattled Soviet Union has paid a surprise visit to Montreal, refusing to even go to that nation’s capital of Ottawa. What areas of discussion were made with the Canadian government remain a secret, but some observers believe the Reds are looking for assistance from their neighbors across the North Pole.”
One more trumpet tone and a few more cheers and whistles as the the Hollywood sign came up on the screen, and then a swimming pool, and some sort of talent contest involving young lovelies in bathing suits standing under palm trees. It was hard to hear what the narrator was saying over the wolf whistles. Sarah nibbled his ear. “Like what you see, sport?”
“Like who I’m with,” he said. “How’s that?”
She whispered, “Glad to hear it. Here’s a taste of what’s yours.”
He looked down, felt a warm tingle expand from the base of his neck. Sarah had daringly pulled her skirt up past her thighs, showing the top of her stockings. She gave a soft laugh and pushed the skirt back. Sam whispered, “Never get tired of tasting that, sweetheart.”
That earned him another kiss. He bit her ear and she sighed. He whispered, “Remember the times back up in the balcony when we were dating, learning to French?”
One more kiss and she warned, laughing. “You keep it up and I’ll drag you back up there, Inspector.”
He squeezed her leg. “No room. I already checked. We’ll have to save it for later.”
“Deal,” she whispered back, fingers flickering over the front of his trousers. “Now be a good boy and watch the movie.”
He sat back in his seat, feeling warm and almost happy, despite all that had gone on this day. The feature film started, a cowboy musical called Girl Crazy, with Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney. The thought nagged at him as the credits unrolled up on the screen that it seemed unseemly, with the world at war and in chaos, with empires bloodletting for survival, that what got everybody’s interest here in the States were Hollywood starlets.
It was, he thought, like living in an apartment building. When the screaming from the neighbors started, when the bottles were being tossed and the punches thrown, you just turned up the radio and pretended everything would be all right.
* * *
When the movie let out, they joined the other patrons spilling out onto the sidewalk. Standing by the entrance, waving, was Donna Fitzgerald. Sam gave her a wide smile and saw a skinny man standing next to her, Donna’s hand firmly clasped in his. Sam thought, Welcome home, Larry. Welcome home from the camps.
Somebody else called out, “Sam! Hey, Sam!” Standing by the theater door was Harold Hanson, accompanied by his wife. Hanson waved Sam over, and Sarah’s hand tightened on his arm. “Oh, God, his wife … I forget, what’s that shrew’s name?”
“Doris,” Sam murmured. “Come on, we’ll make it quick.”
The marshal’s wife—a tiny woman with gray hair tied back in a bun and a pinched expression—stood up on her toes and whispered something in her husband’s ear, then ducked back into the movie theater. When they reached him, Hanson held out his hand to Sarah and said, “Dear, so nice to see you out tonight.”
Sarah said properly, “And so nice for me to have him for a night. Without being called out on a case. Or going to a Party meeting. Or something else.”
Hanson seemed taken aback. Then he nodded. “Well, yes, we all have duties and obligations to perform, including the Party. Sam, I wanted to thank you for your cooperation today with the FBI and his German friend. They said they got everything they needed.”
Sam said, “Did they tell you who the dead man was?”
“No, they didn’t. And it’s not our case anymore, so let it be. They promised to inform us if they have anything we need to know.”
“I’m sure,” Sam said, and Sarah squeezed his arm again. She could sense the sarcasm in his voice, but Hanson didn’t seem to pick up on it, for his expression lightened and he said, “If you excuse me, Doris said she had to go powder her nose, and you know how long that can take.”
“Good night,” Sam said, and Hanson smiled down at Sarah and went into the theater.
“Sam, what was that all about?” Sarah asked him.
“I’m being warned off.”
“Warned off what?”
“That dead man by the tracks. The case supposedly isn’t mine. And I think the marshal saw me tonight and decided to remind me of that.”
She stopped, making him stop as well, in front of a Rexall drugstore. “What do you mean,” she demanded, “supposedly? Are you off the case or not?”
“Officially, yes. Unofficially, Sarah, it’s my first murder case. I’m not going to just give it up.”
She looked up at him, and there was something going on with her eyes. He couldn’t decipher her expression. Then she seemed to make a decision. “All right, Sam. Do you what you have to do. You’re still on probation … and well, I don’t think either of us can stand it if you get bumped down back to sergeant. Just be careful.”
“I will.”
She surprised him by kissing him on the lips. “That Harold Hanson … if he and the rest of them only knew how lucky they were to have you, Sam Miller.”
He put his arm around her, squeezed her tight, and kissed her. “As lucky as I am to have you.”
And then her mood lifted, as if changing a frock, and she chattered on about the musical they had just seen, but he was distracted as they walked up to the Packard. He always prided himself on being able to gauge Sarah’s moods. But back there, when she was asking about his case, it was as if he were looking at a blank wall.
What was going on with Sarah? That had always been part of her allure, that at one moment she could joke about dragging him up to the balcony for some loving and then be hard as stone when it came to running the Underground Railroad station. A lover and a fighter, all mixed in one pretty, exasperating package.
Sam knew he should ask her, but now her mood was cheerful, upbeat, and he wanted it to last. He also wanted to stop thinking of Donna and that sweet, uncomplicated smile.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When they got home, Walter tottered back upstairs, declaring Toby had been a peach of a boy. Sarah went to check on their son as Sam hung up their coats. When Sarah came back, he walked to the cellar door. “Going to the basement for a second.”
“All right. And it’s the last one. Promise. And be nice to him, whoever he is.”
“I’ll be nice,” he replied, trying to keep his voice even. “And you’re the one telling me to be careful, my little revolutionary.”
He was rewarded with a smile. “When you come back up, sweetie, I’ll show you just how dangerous I can be.”
As he turned the knob, the doorbell rang. Sarah stopped, shocked. He said more sharply than he intended, “Any chance there’s been a foul-up? That your passenger thought he had to come to the front door?”
Sarah had paled. “No, impossible. They
all know the routine.”
The doorbell rang again, followed by a pounding at the door and muffled voices. To his wife, in a low and determined tone, Sam said, “No argument, Sarah. No discussion. Go to Toby’s room now. If you hear me shouting, grab him. Climb out the window. Go to one of the neighbors and call your dad. Do you understand?”
Lips pursed, she left the room. Sam went to the vestibule, looked at the upper shelf, where his service revolver rested.
“Just a sec,” he called out. He switched on the porch light and opened the door.
Before him stood two Long’s Legionnaires.
He took a breath. “Something I can do for you?”
He’d never seen these two before. They looked so alike that they could have been brothers. But the one on the left was taller and carried a clipboard, and the other one was shorter, squatter, and had his arms crossed across his uniform jacket, as though he was impatient about everything.
“Evenin’, sir,” the one carrying the clipboard said. “My name is Carruthers. This here is LeClerc. We’re doin’ a survey of our local Party members, lookin’ for some information.”
Sam held the doorknob tight. “What kind of information?”
An insolent shrug from LeClerc. “Stuff. You know how it is.”
“No. I don’t know how it is.”
Carruthers said, “All right if we come in?”
“No, it’s not all right. It’s late. My boy’s in bed, and my wife is getting ready to retire.”
LeClerc made a point of leaning to one side, looking over Sam’s shoulder. “Your wife getting’ ready by goin’ into your cellar? Door’s open.”
Sam didn’t move. “I was just down there, checking on the furnace.”
LeClerc said, “With the light off?”
“I turned the light off when I came up, when I heard you fellows ringing and banging on our door. Now, if you don’t—”
Carruthers smiled. “Well, sir, we do mind, if you don’t mind me sayin’, and we’d like to come in and ask a few questions …”
