by Stan Mason
‘Listen you punk!’ I yelled. ‘Before you go round trying to kill people with a kitchen knife you’d better be sure of your facts! I saved your sister from being beaten up at a meeting a couple of days ago. I let her live here because she had nowhere else to go! I hardly knew her... and I certainly had nothing to do with her death. You’d better believe it because if you attack me again I’ll break both your arms!’ My tirade took the heat out of his argument and he sat on the settee trying to gather his thoughts.
‘Who killed her then?’ he asked eventually.
‘It doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to work out it was the same people who wrecked this apartment, does it? Didn’t it ever occur to you that someone broke in here and demolished the place? And that if Carrie was here they would hurt her?’
He rubbed his hand tiredly over his face. ‘I don’t know what to think any more,’ he replied sadly. ‘The plain fact is that my sister was murdered and I thought you’d done it.’
‘How did you come to that conclusion?’
‘Jack Berg told me.’
I poured out two drinks from the only unbroken bottle in the cocktail cabinet as his words sank into my mind. I gave one to him and sat down on the side of the demolished armchair. ‘Let me get this straight,’ I challenged. ‘You say Jack Berg told you she was dead and that I’d killed her. Is that what he said?’
‘Not in those exact words, he didn’t.’
I bridled at his response. ‘Well in what kind of words did he tell you?’
‘It was more of an insinuation.’ There was a long pause as we both digested the situation, then he decided to reconcile himself and atone his error. ‘Look, my name’s Hymie. I’m sorry I attacked you,’ he apologised. ‘Carrie was the only family I had left...’
‘One question, Hymie,’ I cut in as he tailed off in grief, ‘and I insist on a truthful answer. Are you with Israeli intelligence?’
He shook his head as tears welled-up in his eyes. ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ he replied, with the edge of a sob in his throat. ‘I damn-well wish Carrie hadn’t been!’
I didn’t press the question but merely noted he never answered it. Well, it mattered little to me whether he was a spy or not. I was only interested in leads. There was always the possibility he had some information of value to me. ‘What do you know about International Three Thousand?’ It was as though I had waved a magic wand and his sorrow evaporated at speed. Clearly, with Hymie, there were times when personal feelings became paramount... but business was business! ‘I know of the organisation and its plans to integrate Europe,’ he declared frankly. ‘But in my opinion it was likely to happen eventually anyway. I’m trying to find out more about Die Stunde. What information do you have on them?’
I shrugged my shoulders aimlessly. ‘Die Stunde? That’s the German word for “the hour”, isn’t it? No... I’ve never even heard of an organisation with that name. What do they propose to do?’
I sat on the settee next to him, waiting to hear something interesting, but I was to be disappointed on this occasion. Before I realised what was happening, he stood up and moved quickly towards the door. When he reached it, he turned to look at me, in case I tried to apprehend him. ‘Is this what you normally do?’ I asked with a hint of sarcasm in my voice. ‘Break into someone’s home, try to kill them for the wrong reason, and then duck out again? Because if you do that again,, you’re going to end up in a deep part of the Thames with lead weights on your feet!’
He took fright at the question. ‘I’ve got to go!’ he said apologetically, almost as though he had paid me a courtesy visit. ‘I’m sorry about what happened. Look, Carrie’s funeral will be at Cheshunt cemetery today at three o’clock. If you want to go...’
‘Her funeral?’ My ears pricked up at his in He stared at me with shame in his eyes. ‘Look,’ he began, trying to explain his actions. ‘I was led to believe you’d killed my sister. What would any other brother have done?’
‘Any other brother would have checked out the facts first,’ I scolded, taking another sip of my drink. ‘You can’t go round trying to kill people because you suspect them of a crime. I can tell you one thing for certain. You’ve never stabbed anyone before... not the way you use a knife. I thought you Israeli agents had sound combat training. Recruitment into the army at the age of eighteen and all that.’ He recognised I was taunting him to provide more information but he refused to take the bait.
‘I never said I was an Israeli agent,’ he replied softly.
‘Tell me about Die Stunde.’ My question came fast on the heels of his words, I had to find out something about it... anything!
He took fright at the question. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said apologetically, almost as though he had paid me a courtesy visit. ‘I’m sorry about what’s happened. Look, Carrie’s funeral will beat Cheshunt cemetery at three o’clock today. If you want to go,’
‘Her funeral! I understood she was being flown back to Israel on an El Al aeroplane!’ I recalled delivering her body with Berg to two people I had never met before and being chased all over the docklands area until I had run myself ragged.
‘There was a change of plan. We have no family so the Israeli government decided she should be buried here.’
The telephone started to ring and I searched for it among the debris. By the time I had found it Hymie had disappeared, closing the door behind him. It was a pity I couldn’t earn his confidence to extract further information.
‘Well goodness gracious me!’ stormed Flanders sarcastically. ‘The sleeping beauty has awakened! Where the hell are you, Savage, or have you forgotten about the assignment altogether?’
‘Good morning, Ted,’ I replied calmly.
‘What is it with you?’ he continued angrily, intent on taking me apart for my ostensible sluggishness. ‘This newspaper’s not paying you to take a permanent holiday! May I remind you we have readers out there who want to know what’s going on in the world!’
He ranted on for a while in his usual manner even though he knew I wasn’t paying any attention. I placed the receiver on the settee and continued sipping my drink until he had finished his tirade. I could see no reason to embroil myself in a pointless argument. Flanders had been a reporter for many years. He knew what it was all about! His problem was one of impatience. When he slowed to a halt, I decided to switch roles and get him working for me. ‘All right, Ted,’ I told him. ‘I want you to move heaven and earth in Research Department to find me information on the following. First, Henry Jacobs of State Security. Second, Harry Kirk... I’ll tell you about him later. Third, Die Stunde, a German organisation of some kind.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line before he came at me like a tidal wave. ‘I think we ought to get the procedure right, you lazy son-of-a-bitch! If you want information, shift your buttocks over here and tell Research Department what you want yourself! Do you hear me?’
I decided he had used up his share of bad temper on me for one morning so I switched off the telephone. It was an effective means of terminating the conversation. Poor old Ted! One had to have some sympathy for the man. From his point of view, I had been sent on an assignment and had fallen off the edge of the world. Despite his comments, I knew he would contact the newspaper’s Research Department and examine every shred of evidence before passing it to me. He had a sharp nose for news and never missed out on anything. Unfortunately, he had a flaw in his character which precluded him from apologising when he was wrong, showering praise on his staff, or giving them credit even if their work was exemplary. The bad temper and bluster was the means by which he tried to hide his weakness. I fixed up a table and placed my lap-top computer on it. The bit was between my teeth and I experienced a tremendous urge to continue writing the editorial on revolution.
“The overthrow of the Russian monarchy in 1917 was a revolution based on a new ideal which could be spread quickly thr
ough the poorer nations of the world. In the main, it offered equality to all, involving the conversion of the masses founded not on God-fearing principles but on the doctrine of atheism and total dependence on the State. How a major event of this nature could occur in a world where most people believe in one form of deity or another, where superstition exists regardless of environment, and when ancient practices, customs and legends are paramount, is hard to understand. It serves to prove that revolutions are a disease of the period. The axiom is that no democratic country can afford to sit back smugly without caring to look over its shoulder. The reason is that civilisation can be analogised as a number of balloons filled with air, hanging closely to each other. It takes only one small pin-prick to deflate one of them, leaving the others more vulnerable to attack and collapse.”
I stopped at this point wondering how mankind could develop so monstrously, where individuals and groups created fear, despondency and misery to achieve personal power and fulfil their own ambitions. It wasn’t as though people lived for five hundred years or more to enjoy the spoils. Working life rarely extended more than fifty years from start to finish. What instincts drove these fanatics so strongly to deceive themselves and others for such a short span of time? If one waded through the centuries, there were so few people who had actually changed the course of history for personal satisfaction. Why did so many others try? It was like a disease where individuals strove to cause change and... as the atrocities of World War Two had proved... it didn’t end there either.
The cemetery at Cheshunt was quite hard to find. After driving for an hour, I finally came across Silver Street and parked a little way inside the entrance. There was a small building at the side of the cemetery where prayers were offered over the body of the deceased before interment. I made my way into the building and sat waiting for the coffin to be brought. It was always my understanding, and I had seen many films at the cinema in which it had occurred, that various suspects turned up at the funeral of the murdered person. Thereafter, the detective would communicate with one of them, or follow a suspicious character, to continue the case with a new and rewarding lead. On this occasion it didn’t happen. Excluding the Rabbi, the only other person who arrived was Carrie’s brother.
‘Is there not a minion?’ the Rabbi asked blandly.
‘A minion?’ I asked in ignorance.
‘No,’ replied Hymie sadly. ‘She had no family except for me.’ He turned to face my inquisitive gaze. ‘In the Jewish religion,’ he explained, ‘any gathering for prayer requires a minimum of ten men over the age of thirteen. That’s a minion. If the requirement isn’t satisfied, the prayers offered are rather different.’
I nodded although I couldn’t fathom the reason why someone couldn’t pray to God adequately without the presence of nine other men. An assistant wheeled in the coffin on a vehicle similar to a gun-carriage and the Rabbi began to cant his ritual to despatch Carrie’s spirit to a higher elevation. When this ended, the coffin was wheeled out of the other side of the building to the graveyard. Shortly, we stopped at an open grave and the Rabbi invited us to lower the coffin into position by means of two stout ropes. Once this was completed, an assistant pulled the ropes free to leave the mortal remains at rest for eternity. We used a shovel in turn to toss some earth on top of the coffin while the Rabbi completed the appropriate prayer for the ritual. Then we walked slowly back to the building respectfully where Hymie handed some money to the Rabbi and his assistant for their services. We continued outside into the sunlight with sadness in our hearts. There is no pleasure in the interment of a young woman in the flower of her youth and we both grieved in our own particular way. However, we remained in the world of the living and I decided to attack him at his weakest moment. ‘You still haven’t told me about Die Stunde,’ I chided. He shrugged his shoulders aimlessly, preferring not to talk in his hour of sorrow. ‘You can’t run away from me for the whole of your life, Hymie!’
‘This is neither the time nor the place!’ he riposted angrily, with a catch in his voice. ‘Good God! My sister’s still warm in her grave and all you can think about is your newspaper! What kind of a monster are you?’
‘Don’t you want to find out who killed her?’ It was necessary to play on his motive for personal revenge and I rammed the words home, hoping he would rise to the bait.
‘Does it matter?’ he replied philosophically, finding it hard to breath as emotion overcame him and tears welled-up in his eyes. ‘Does it really matter who killed her? If I find the man, what am I suppose to do to him... take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth? Would I be satisfied then?’
His comments surprised me and I became irritated to realise he had been quite prepared to kill me for revenge. ‘Of one thing I’m certain,’ I told him flatly. ‘You don’t work for Israeli intelligence or any other intelligence agency! I must be out of my mind even talking to you!’
‘Then why don’t you leave me alone, damn you!’
He sat down on a seat near the car park and put his head in his hands before sobbing. I waited patiently for him to stop, then he rose and went to his car. I opened the door on the other side and climbed in beside him.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.
‘I think we should sit down somewhere away from this place and have a long talk, Hymie,’ I suggested calmly. ‘Maybe we can pool ideas and help each other.’
He stared directly into my eyes to determine whether I was sincere. ‘All right,’ he agreed eventually, returning to reason. ‘I’ll come back to your place. We’ll see what we can piece together.’
I climbed out of the car, slammed the door, and walked towards my own vehicle. It was my good fortune he delayed starting his engine for some twenty seconds. There was no reason for either of us to be suspicious; therefore it was unexpected. As soon as he turned his key in the ignition there was a tremendous explosion and his car burst into flame. I could only assume that a bomb had been planted under the bonnet of his vehicle. Hymie never knew what happened. Within seconds, there was a second explosion as the fuel tank ignited. It would have been delightful to report that I became a hero, dragging the victim from the flames at risk to my own life. Unhappily, it wasn’t so. There was no opportunity for me to save him; he didn’t have the faintest chance of survival. Within ten seconds his body was burned to a cinder. I watched helplessly from a short distance away, shielding my face from the heat with my hands. Someone was determined to eliminate both brother and sister. As I watched the man die, I heard the sound of a rifle shot and a bullet ricocheted from a stone near my feet. I dropped quickly to the ground and crawled to the other side of my car, opening the door slightly before hauling myself inside. Shots were being fired one after another and I could hear them whining as they struck the vehicle. I started the motor and drove like a demon from the cemetery after punching a hole in the shattered windscreen with my fist. When I gathered my senses in an area of comparative safety some distance away, I stopped to examine the damage. There had been six further shots which had hit the bodywork, including the one which shattered the windscreen.
I climbed back into the car and sat there thoughtfully for a while. Someone had planted a bomb in Hymie’s car to blow him to kingdom come. Then they fired at me a number of times but never even wounded me. The shot which ricocheted at my feet was the first one. I was out in the open without any means of defending myself, yet not one of the shots hit their target. I could only imagine the marksman was trying to miss me deliberately. I didn’t ring the police or Jack Berg this time. Hymie’s death had nothing to do with me and I wasn’t willing to get involved. I drove around in the car for an hour or so, losing myself in the busy traffic. Then I went to a restaurant for a meal. The assignment was getting out of hand. Two people had been killed and I could honestly say there were three attempts on my life... the two men in the docklands, Hymie’s attack, and the marksman at the cemetery. I hadn’t pl
anned to give up my life for the newspaper so early in my career and I considered it was about time Ted Flanders took some flak from me for a change!
After returning to my apartment, I surveyed the wreckage with dismay. Everything belonged to the newspaper... the flat and the furniture. The bill for the damage would have to be sent directly to the administrator of expense accounts at the newspaper, although I knew exactly the tenor of his answer. He would ask many questions about the validity of my claim, comparing it to the level of achievement in relation to the assignment. I recalled the words of Jack Berg when he suggested if you can’t beat them, join them. It was good advice and there was every reason to seek membership of the organisation I intended to expose. As I mulled over the situation, the telephone rang. It was Miss Grayson.
‘Are we going to see each other this evening,’ she cooed, her voice emitting soft golden tones.
I tried to recall whether I had arranged to see her later but I couldn’t remember. ‘I’ll collect you at eight o’clock,’ I replied. ‘Is that O.K.?’
‘It’s O.K. by me,’ she answered. ‘By the way, you won’t mind massaging my back again, will you? I’m in great pain!’
I felt a degree of embarrassment discussing such personal matters over the telephone. ‘I’ll collect you at eight,’ I repeated to terminate the conversation. I let the receiver fall to the settee and turned my attention to my lap-top computer. I wanted to write more for the editorial although my thoughts were very muddled. I sat facing a blank sheet of paper with my fingers hovering over the keys expectantly. Nothing happened for a while, then they began to stroke the keyboard gently. It was almost as though I was holding a seance by myself, trying to capture the words as they passed over from someone on the other side.
“During long periods of peace, governments tend to ignore the fact that revolution can occur at any place... at any time. It is mobile in its nature, consisting of dissent and discontent which fester in the womb of one or more regions of the world to await ultimate birth.”
