The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus

by Michael Panush

  “Si, Rabbi.” Cohen sent another couple shots rattling into the air. The bullets hummed over the heads of the mob, even knocking off a tall fellow’s straw boater’s hat. They began to break. Members of the mob drifted away, heading to the safety of alleyways or simply walking back down the street. Cohen kept the machine gun trained on the remaining men.

  Their leader gripped his bleeding hand. He glanced at his mob and they stared at him—waiting for his order. “Let’s go to Chinatown. Those heathen Chinese are the lowest scum in the city. I bet they have all kinds of fine goods, hidden away and ripe for the taking. Or maybe we’ll go to Hogshead Street, teach the Negroes a lesson or two. Those darkies deserve it.” He turned away and started walking, doing his best to keep his head up. Cohen sent a shot whizzing past him, and he broke into a run, almost tripping in his haste to flee.

  That did it for the mob. They dispersed or fled, scrambling away from Haven Street. Clay watched them leave and lowered his fists. For the moment, Haven Street was safe. He looked at his friends, who had helped protect the street, and noticed the injuries they had taken. They needed rest and safety—but the police strike continued, and so would the lawlessness.

  “Back to the synagogue.” Rabbi Holtz offered his hand to Zipporah. “Well done.”

  “It was Cohen’s doing, mostly,” Zipporah said. “Nothing like a heavy machine gun to make folks decide on a different course of action. I used one of those a time or two in Mesopotamia, out in the desert. Damn useful weapons.”

  “True enough.” Cohen picked up the machine gun, using a rag to hold the burning barrel. “Damn heavy as well. When I was younger, I could carry this across the desert, set up on some hill and wipe out a pack of Federales. No longer, though. Still, I suppose it served its purpose.” She started back to the synagogue, and the others followed.

  But as they neared the entrance, the double doors slammed open. Harvey hurried out. “Papa, I just got a call about Uncle Herbert!” The words spilled out of him in his panic. He darted in front of his father. “He’s in trouble, very big trouble, and we need to help him. Detective Flynn just called, and he said that—” Harvey paused and looked at Monk and Zipporah. “Oh, Miss Sarfati. Mr. Moss. Are you okay?”

  “Just a bit of a scrap,” Monk explained.

  “We’ll live, child,” Zipporah said. “What about your uncle?”

  Harvey turned to his father. “Detective Flynn just called. He heard from some of his fellow officers that these private detectives Eames hired—the Sinclair-Koots Detective Agency—have found out where Herbert is staying. He’s at the Bower Green, a greenhouse cafe in Finch Bower. They’re gonna capture him and maybe then they’ll deport him! Or interrogate him, and torture him.” Harvey grabbed his father’s hand. “We have to help him.”

  “We are needed here,” Rabbi Holtz explained. “I’ll call Eames and some of my friends, explain about Herbert, and see if we can—”

  “There’s not enough time.” Harvey turned to Clay. “Mr. Clay, Miss Sarfati—could you please go with me and rescue Herbert?”

  Zipporah stared at Rabbi Holtz. He shook his head. “You need to stay here, Harvey, where it’s safe. Your uncle has made some very foolish decisions. Cavorting with communists and radicals, involving himself with a—with a shikse. He should have expected something like this.”

  “I don’t care.” Harvey let his father’s hand fall. “He’s my uncle and he’s your brother. I love him and I won’t let him be deported or hurt.” He stepped back. “I’m going to Finch Bower and I’m going to warn him and rescue him. Even if y-you say I shouldn’t.” Harvey rarely disobeyed his father, but he seemed willing to now. He stepped back, stared at Rabbi Holtz, and then turned and ran—going the wrong way down the empty street.

  Rabbi Holtz sighed. “His mother could be just as willful,” he mused. He looked at Clay and Zipporah. “Go with him. Other mobs could be around—other looters. I am needed here, with my people. Monk and Mrs. Cohen can help me.” He offered his hand to Clay. “But please protect my brother, and my son. Can you do that, Mr. Clay?”

  “I will,” Clay promised.

  He shook Rabbi Holtz’s hand. “Harvey! My automobile is this way.” Harvey stopped running and reversed direction. He followed Clay and Zipporah as they crossed the street, went another block and reached the Studebaker. Clay drove, while Zipporah took some bandages from the glove compartment and did her best to cover her cuts and bruises. Harvey watched her from the passenger seat, terrified by the sight of his wounded friend. Zipporah offered him a quick smile as they drove along. In the distance, smoke rose from fires started elsewhere in the city. Gunshots rang out from the direction of the Rookery, the cracks loud and clear. The riots would continue, just as Detective Flynn had promised. Clay hoped that some would come to their senses soon, before the Dagger Men made their move, or it might be too late for the entire city.

  ~~~

  Finch Bower lay to the north of Haven Street, the center of Bohemian life in the city. Neat houses with colorful gables bordered the wide, tree-lined street, surrounding coffee shops, restaurants, and jazz clubs. Normally, the streets would be full of couples strolling together, artists composing pictures of the scene, and diners enjoying the outdoor cafes. Instead, everything seemed deserted. Looters had smashed up a coffee shop, destroying furniture and spilling milk out into the street. It trickled down a storm drain as the Studebaker drove past.

  They sped to the center of Finch Bower, where the Bower Green rested on a wide green lawn. The rioters had overturned a carriage on the street, and its wheels spun in the light wind. The spokes cast long shadows over the pavement. Harvey held his breath as the Studebaker circled the lawn and the Bower Green, an oversized octagonal glasshouse full of greenery. The frosted glass prevented anyone from seeing anything inside beyond muted shades of emerald. Clay drove around, looking for any looters, or sign of the Sinclair-Koots Agency. He didn’t see anything. They had either arrived on time, or far too late. He parked the automobile at the back of the lawn, and they emerged into the cold sunlight. Clay’s boots settled on the grass.

  “He’s in there, I think,” Harvey said. “We’d better hurry—before the detectives get here.” He crossed the grass, with Clay and Zipporah close behind. Harvey glanced back at them. “Do y-you think my father will be angry, Mr. Clay?”

  “He’ll understand,” Clay said. “Herbert is his brother.”

  “But he and Herbert have been fighting—they had that huge argument at my house, just two days ago.” Harvey stopped running. “Maybe—maybe my father sort of wants Herbert to be deported, so he doesn’t have to deal with him anymore.”

  “That’s not true.” Zipporah stepped closer to Harvey. “They are brothers and they love each other. They both love you as well. There’s a bond among you three, and it will never be broken. Your other uncle, Chaim Holtz, has that bond too. They may have had their arguments, but if Chaim Holtz showed up tomorrow, they would welcome him with open arms.” She smiled. “My parents are dead and I had no siblings. I have no family at all—but you do, child, and you should never take it for granted.”

  “Thank you, Miss Sarfati,” Harvey agreed. “Now let’s save my uncle.”

  A brick pathway cut across the grass, leading to the entrance of the Bower Green. The door had been shut, but swung open when Clay put some pressure against it. They walked into the Bower Green. It only had a few occupants—about a half-dozen of Herbert’s radical friends, who sat at the round tables amongst the endless shrubbery, hanging vines, and long rows of flowers that filled the greenhouse. Warmth filled the air and Herbert and his friends had shed their coats and stood in vests and shirtsleeves. The Bower Green contained a few tropical birds and butterflies, which seemed to feel the agitation that had settled over the city. They fluttered from branch to branch, adding creaking calls that rang off the glass panes in the walls.


  Herbert sat at the table near the entrance, next to Bethany Hark. They had both been enjoying mugs of tea. Herbert sprang up when Harvey entered. “Harvey—my God.” He ran to the boy. “What are you doing out here? You shouldn’t be here, Harvey—not with the city like this.” He glared at Clay. “Take him back to Haven Street. My brother will protect him.”

  “We came to warn you, Uncle Herbert.” Harvey pointed to the door. “The Sinclair-Koots Detective Agency was hired by Mr. Eames to police the city, during the strike—but they’re just using the chaos as an excuse to arrest everyone they think is a radical, so they can hand them over to the Bureau of Investigation and they’ll be deported, or tortured, or killed.”

  Hark almost calmly sipped her tea. “The same happened in China—and happens still. I should have expected that the purges and crackdowns in Shanghai would soon come to America as well. I’m just surprised it took so long.”

  “Sinclair-Koots.” Herbert slumped in his seat. The other Bohemians gathered around them, listening closely. “I know of them. They’re strike-breakers, mostly, serving as security for the bosses and breaking the skulls of working men trying to earn their rights.” He stood up and straightened his vest and spectacles, trying his best to look noble. “The capitalist running dogs are coming for me. I am not surprised and I am not frightened. I am prepared to face any consequence for the international revolution and liberation of the—”

  “You need to run.” Clay didn’t have time for Bolshevik bleating. He moved in front of Herbert, cutting off his speech. “I don’t know if the Bureau of Investigation wants your friends, but the detectives are coming for you. I know the man who leads them, Orton Sinclair. We fought together in the Polar Bear Expedition. He is a cunning and determined soldier, and he will catch you if you don’t run.”

  “I’m not running, Mr. Clay.” Herbert folded his arms. “I will stay here with my comrades and I won’t be frightened by some servant of capitalism who went to war against the Russian proletariat when they attempted to—”

  Zipporah grabbed his arm. “This isn’t the time. Don’t be stupid.”

  “Please, Uncle Herbert,” Harvey added. “Come with us.”

  “I—I can’t just run away and leave my comrades.” Herbert looked at Hark, as if she would affirm his words. “Right?”

  “I think you should, Herbert. You are a very good young man, and a willing member of the class struggle—but you can be a real sap at times.” Hark leaned closer. “Go with your nephew. We’ll disappear into the city. You don’t deserve to be deported for what you believe.”

  Herbert looked like he was going to agree, when a chorus of motors came from outside. Clay’s stony body creaked in panic. It was too late. The Sinclair-Koots Detective Agency had arrived. Clay and everyone inside the Bower Green could watch their approach through the windows of the glasshouse, and the open door. Three armored cars rumbled over the curb and into the grass. They had bulky, square armored plates covering their forms, and swiveling turrets with detectives manning the machine guns in the cupolas. The armored automobiles came to a halt in front of the Bower Green, deposited a number of detectives on the lawn. They assembled before the glasshouse, checking their weapons as they shifted their packs and plated armor.

  Clay hurried to the doors. He slammed them shut, then grabbed a table and used that to force the doors closed. Clay crouched down and motioned the others to do the same. He could still see what was happening through the glass windows in the door, and watched as the detectives moved closer. Orton Sinclair led them, a speaking trumpet at his side.

  Sinclair raised the trumpet to his mouth. “Herbert Holtz! We know you are inside—a reliable informer has appraised us of your presence. We will give you an opportunity to come out and give yourself up. We’ll hurt you; perhaps break one or two of your ribs. But that’s a mere matter of principle. If you continue to hide, you dirty Red, then we will come in and get you, and by God, we will truly hurt you when we bring you out.” Like all the Sinclair-Koots detectives, Sinclair wore a modified doughboy uniform. They had the tin bowler helmets over olive green uniforms, but they sported armor plates on their chests and on their arms and legs as well, and goggles hid their eyes.

  Harvey grabbed his uncle’s vest. “Don’t go!”

  “Talk to him.” Zipporah tapped Clay’s shoulder. “You fought together. You were soldiers, in Russia. Perhaps you can convince him to change his mind—tell his Bureau masters that he couldn’t find Herbert Holtz, and go home without causing any trouble.”

  Clay doubted it would work—but he had few other options. He raised his voice. “Corporal Sinclair!” he called. “This is Emmet Clay!”

  “Is that you, Clay?” Sinclair called back, his voice rendered loud and tinny through the speaking trumpet. “What are you doing there, alongside Bolsheviks and subversives? Have they captured you, perhaps? Taken you hostage, somehow? I can scarcely give that credit.”

  “I’m protecting Herbert Holtz,” Clay called back. He glanced at Herbert. “He is a brother to the man I serve. He’s the uncle to a boy who I care for, a great deal. I can’t let him come to harm.” He walked to the window in the door and stared out, letting Sinclair see his face. “Please, Sinclair. I had my fill of bloodshed in Russia. I know you did as well. You’re tired of sitting in freezing trenches, of bloody last stands against charging Bolshevik infantry, and ducking down from bursts of machine gun fire spat from tachanka wagons. Go home. Leave Herbert here.”

  Sinclair paused. “You want me to stop, Clay. Is that it?”

  “That’s about right.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t. I am a patriot and I will not have my country destroyed from within by communist agitators.”

  “Herbert couldn’t agitate a dinner party,” Clay replied. “He’s a harmless kid.”

  “Mr. Clay...” Herbert started, but Sinclair spoke again.

  “I need to capture him, Clay. I need to fight.” Sinclair paused. “I am a soldier. I remember the horrors of the Polar Bear Expedition all too well, but there is nothing else for me. What am I to do? Work in an office? Man a store? I am a fighter, and I need to fight. That means working with my detective agency and defeating America’s enemies. Even if that means fighting an old friend.” His voice became more sure—more of a commanding officer giving orders. “Now, we are going to enter that greenhouse and bring out Herbert Holtz. Will you stand against me, Clay?”

  “I will,” Clay replied.

  “That is a pity—but I’m afraid it can be nothing more.” Sinclair waved to the armored cars. “Fire.”

  The machine guns on the tops of the armored cars roared to life. Clay grabbed Harvey and pushed him down, under the cover of the nearest table as a storm of lead reached the Bower Green. Bullets shattered the countless glass panes. For a second, Clay thought he was in a blizzard in the land of his creation, one of the wild dust-ups of wind and snow that struck the Russian plains like blows from God. The glass fell, glittering and shimmering, and smashed against the tables and shattered. The ringing of breaking glass mixed with the roar of gunfire, creating a strangely delicate cacophony. A spike of glass struck Clay, grazing his arm before shattering on the floor. He could survive that kind of damage, but the others were not so lucky. The Bohemians ducked for cover, hiding under the tables, to avoid the falling glass. Clay hoped they would be safe as the chattering machine guns ended—and then he heard a pained, almost quiet whimper from Harvey.

  A chunk of glass, a jagged spire the shape of an icicle, had punctured the boy’s arm. The jagged tip stabbed into his skin, and redness seeped into his sleeve. Harvey didn’t cry out. His eyes widened and he shook, but he didn’t scream. Clay should have known something like this would happen. He was a killing machine, a weapon, a golem—but his friends were not. He felt sick and his body creaked as Harvey’s blood dripped slowly to the ground.

 
The others noticed as well. “Oh no.” Herbert looked at his nephew, unable to take his eyes away from the wound. As soon as the gunfire ended, he ran. He broke out from under his table and dashed across the Bower Green, shattered glass smashing under his feet, and heedlessly scrambled to his nephew. “Oh God—I should have departed as soon as you arrived—I should have fled. I should have given up everything, instead of grandstanding...” He looked even more pained than Harvey. He dropped to his knees, already tearing his coat to make a bandage. “Don’t worry, Harvey. We’ll get you out of here. We’ll keep you safe.”

  “Let me, Herbert.” Zipporah reached him next. “There’s needle and thread in the auto. We’ll bandage the wound as best we can, and then we must flee.” She went to work, doing her best to staunch the flow and then gripping the glass. She glanced angrily at Herbert. “I trust there’s no more disagreements on that score?”

  “No. We’ll flee. We’ve got no choice.” Herbert sounded defeated. Clay almost felt sorry for him. He pointed to the rear. “There’s a door in the back. We can escape.” He raised his voice, calling to the other Bohemians hiding out in the Bower Green. “I think we’d all better flee. We can plot revolution another day—but not now.”

  Hark started getting their radical friends out from under the tables and toward the door. They stayed low. Hopefully, the remains of the frosted glass meant that the detectives outside couldn’t spot them. Clay glanced back at the door, which swung dangerously on busted hinges. It wouldn’t last long, and he doubted that Sinclair was a man of patience.

  Sinclair’s voice boomed through the speaking trumpet. “All right, Clay—we’re coming in. We’re going to grab Herbert Holtz and anyone with him. If I were you, I would stand respectfully aside. I don’t want to label you as an enemy of the state as well.”