by Alice Duncan
“God damn son of a bitch!” screeched Eugene, as ever with the mot juste for any occasion. Provided it was a scary one.
“What happened?” asked Gertrude, sounding shaky. When I glanced over at her, I saw that she’d hit her head against the window frame. Good. I only wished she’d knocked herself out.
And then a miracle occurred. Honest to goodness. To say I was flabbergasted, dumbfounded and struck all of a twitter would be to minimize my feelings.
As if God Himself roared from heaven, a voice shouted—I learned later it shouted from a bullhorn—“Come out of the car with your hands up! Throw your weapons out and climb out! Now!”
Well, boy howdy—as a person I knew who came from Texas used to say—I didn’t need to be told twice! I also didn’t trust my companions, so rather than leaping out and running, I kind of pushed my door open and rolled out of the car. As the car was slanted into the ditch, I unfortunately rolled underneath it.
That, however, didn’t turn out to be a bad thing, since Eugene leaped out of the Chevrolet with his gun blazing. It didn’t blaze long, and neither did he. He dropped like a rock as soon as the coppers fired back. I didn’t see what Gertrude did, but I gather she threw her weapon away. I did hear her scream, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! It’s not my fault!”
A likely story. I couldn’t see a whole lot from my vantage point, but as soon as the shooting stopped and people started running toward the machine and I heard a voice holler, “Daisy! Damn it, where are you?” I knew this was rescue and not a rival gang of criminals. Only Sam Rotondo could stir up such a wealth of emotions in my bosom. I was ever so grateful to be rescued, but did the stupid man have to swear at me as he did it?
Well, never mind. I crawled out of the ditch—evidently the orange trees had been irrigated recently, because I was all over mud—and the first words out of my mouth were “She is, too, at fault!” I regret to say that the next words were “Curse you, Sam Rotondo, if you’d only told me why you were interested in Gertrude Minneke, maybe I could have helped you. But no! Not you! You always have to—umph!”
The umph was occasioned by Sam grabbing me and shaking me as if I were a sheet he aimed to hang out on the line to dry. “Shut up! Tell me what happened! All I know is that your friend Buckingham called the Pasadena Police Department with some wild story about a Swiss girl claiming you’d been abducted at gunpoint!”
I took a deep, calming breath. I also realized I was really cold. December had just descended upon us, I was wet and muddy, and I was shaking like a leaf in a strong breeze. Part of my shakiness was probably due to nervousness, but it was still darned cold. I opened my mouth to tell Sam the saga, but he yanked off his coat and put it around me.
“Here. You’re shivering. Damn it, get out of the cold!”
“Stop swearing at me! And your coat is going to be filthy!”
Naturally, he paid me no mind. He hauled me over to a police car and shoved me inside. It relieved what was left of my mind that he stuck me in the front seat. Evidently this time, at least, he wasn’t holding me responsible for the shooting and escaping part of this fiasco. Well, if he didn’t care about the state of his wardrobe, why should I? I hugged his coat close to my body, drew up my knees so that they were covered, too, and sat there, staring at the action taking place on the street.
It didn’t make my heart swell with relief to see that Eugene was still alive. I guess he was shot in an unimportant part of the body, like maybe a leg or an arm or something. I suppose that makes me a bad person. Or maybe it just makes me human. But I would have been just as happy if he’d been shot dead. As for Gertrude, I aimed to do my level best to make sure she suffered any punishment she deserved. It already appeared that she was going to try to pin everything on her brother, but from my perspective, she was as guilty as he. She, after all, was the one who’d lied to me, told me idiotic stories, and was the first of the siblings to shove a gun at me.
And then there was Hilda. As soon as I could function properly again, I aimed to telephone Miss Emmaline Castleton, tell her of Hilda’s heroism, and make sure her father included Hilda in his letter to his congressman or the president, or whoever he aimed to write to regarding Kurt Grünfeld.
It occurred to me then that I’d have to tackle Sam on the Hilda issue, too. That knowledge didn’t make my heart sing, but I’d got around Sam Rotondo before, and I’d be darned if I’d let him bamboozle me this time. Hilda had saved my life, and my life was worth something, even if Sam didn’t often think so.
And . . . aw, nuts. Billy and my parents were simply going to love this latest attestation to my inability to stay out of trouble. Darn it. None of these things were my fault!
Shoot. I sounded like Gertrude. Perhaps I’d do well to spend the entire ride back to Pasadena making what was truly an innocent involvement in crime sound even more plausible than it really was.
Bother.
Chapter Eighteen
“You mean that’s the reason there was no traffic on the road?”
My entire family—well, the part of it that lived in Pasadena—Sam Rotondo, another police detective named Ernest Gilchrist, Johnny and Flossie Buckingham, and none other than Miss Emmaline Castleton (I’d called her from the police station to tell her about Hilda’s heroism) were sitting around the dining-room table. We were drinking either hot tea or hot cocoa (my choice) and nibbling on sandwiches Vi had put together in a jiffy, since this was an unorthodox time for dining. It was a tight fit, but Pa and Sam found enough chairs so that we could all squeeze in. Kind of. It didn’t matter. Nobody cared.
In actual fact, according to what I was told, dinner that evening had barely been touched, since no one could account for my absence, and the family was in a dither. The class I taught at the Salvation Army had lasted a little longer than usual, as it was the last class and there were so many good-byes and so forth to get through. Then I’d been accosted by Gertrude and Eugene Minneke and forced to drive them, they hoped, to San Diego. From there they aimed to cross the border. They told me they’d leave me in our trusty Chevrolet on the California side of the border, but I sensed I’d be the only one of the two remaining in California, and the Chevrolet the only one of the two of us still extant.
Eugene’s watch had been wrong—by the way, it turned out the evil duo was from Boston and not New Jersey, if you care—as had my assessment of the time we’d spent in the automobile. I’d actually been driving for an hour and a half by the time the tire blew. By the way, the Minnekes’ accostment (is that a word?) of me caused me to drop my egg-and-pea castle, my flowers and my cooking booklet. I didn’t care much about the book, having resented it for weeks now, but I was darned proud of that castle and the flowers and hated to see them hit the ground. Ah, well, such is life.
“Yes,” said Sam. He wasn’t looking awfully well. I don’t think he was mad about his suit coat, which would have to be cleaned by a dry-process cleaning establishment. After all, he was the one who’d made me wear it. He just looked kind of pale and nervy, if you know what I mean. So did Billy. Even more so than usual. I guess they’d been worried about me. How sweet.
Sam went on. “When we got that call, we didn’t know where the . . . um, where they were making you take them, but we figured that since the authorities in New Jersey were after them, too, they’d probably try to get across a border, and Canada’s too far away.”
I stared at Sam, flummoxed. “You knew they were wanted by the police? Why didn’t you tell me?” I regret to say my voice was rather shrill. “I asked you! You never said a word!”
He held out both of his hands in a please-forgive-me gesture. I continued to glare. “We didn’t have any positive identification of the two. All we knew was from a bulletin stating that two people from Boston named Violet and Vernon Rossi were wanted by the police back there for violent anarchic activities. Evidently, they were involved in the robbing of a bank, during which Vernon shot a teller and Violet threw a bomb.”
Underlying my shock wa
s the silly notion that the Rossis’ parents should have named her Violent rather than Violet. I didn’t say so aloud. I was still too mad at Sam. Therefore, what I said was, “I asked you, Sam Rotondo, why you were so darned interested in Gertrude . . . Violet . . . whatever her name is. Why didn’t you tell me at least what you suspected?”
“We had written descriptions of them, and the Boston police sent photographs, but none of our men ever got a clear look at either one of them.”
Now this was just ridiculous, and I told Sam so. “How on earth,” I said in a measured voice, “could the entire Pasadena Police Department find neither hide nor hair of those two? I kept seeing them on the street every time I turned around!”
“Well then, why didn’t you tell me? That might have helped, you know.”
“Why should I tell you about them when I didn’t know you were interested?”
“Besides,” said Sam, “they’d changed their appearance. Both of them.”
“Oh, pooh! Nobody can change that much!” I argued furiously, “Anyhow, you knew very well that Gertrude—Violet, I mean—came to that stupid cooking class every Saturday afternoon for seven dreadful weeks! You could just have shown up there and had your answer. You could have stared at her to your heart’s content. I would have even held her down for you so you could check her from stem to stern.”
Sam looked at his uneaten sandwich. “I asked about that. The chief didn’t want to chance their finding out we were on to them.”
Silence prevailed for several moments. I broke it. “So the Pasadena Police Department, which very kindly rewarded me with a framed certificate of bravery not even a year ago, would rather have me killed than tip the criminals off that you were suspicious of them?”
“Daisy,” my mother said.
Unrepentant, I transferred my glare from Sam to her. She gulped and said no more.
“Listen,” Sam said after heaving a heavy sigh. “It wasn’t my idea. I wanted to warn you, but I wasn’t allowed to. You know, Daisy, we policemen are kind of like soldiers. We can’t just hare off on our own. We have to work as a team under the direction of a chief.”
Still scowling, I pondered that. I still didn’t like it, but I guessed I couldn’t blame Sam for not breaking the rules of his job, could I? I decided to ask another question. “The machine was almost out of gas. I think we’d have made it to El Monte, but one of the tires blew before we got there. And you fellows were right there, Johnny on the spot. Did you plan the blowout?” Our poor car! Driven into a ditch, and it was practically brand new.
“We had motorcycle police everywhere. When you were spotted on Foothill, heading through Arcadia, we deduced they were making you drive to the border, and that you’d have to continue on that road for some time. So we planted nail-bait on the road and cleared it so that no other traffic could get through. We had barriers on both ends and on the few side streets leading off of Foothill. There was nowhere else you could go but straight ahead or you’d have been stopped by a barricade and armed policemen.”
“Oh.” I was feeling pretty darned sullen by that time. Not to mention sore. Heck, I’d been thrown to the ground, whacked with a gun and scared out of my mind. I deserved to feel sullen. “Did Hilda call you? They bashed her and shot at her, and I was afraid they might have hurt her.”
Sam nodded. “They did hurt her, but she was only scraped up some. She had Captain Buckingham here”—he nodded at Johnny—“call us. We immediately put out an all points bulletin.”
Whatever that was. Probably because I was so traumatized, I said without thinking, “You’re not going to do anything to Hilda, are you?”
He blinked at me, and I realized my mistake. To Sam Rotondo, Hilda was a nice immigrant lady from Switzerland. Darn it.
“Why would we do anything to her? She’s the heroine of the piece.” He hesitated and then added, “And you, of course.”
“Of course,” I said drily. Very drily.
Being Sam, naturally he wouldn’t let the matter drop there. He squinted at me. “Why do you think we’d be interested in doing anything to Miss Schwartz?”
Miss Emmaline Castleton answered the question, even though it had been directed at me. “Because Daisy believes Hilda to be a German in the country illegally. But we’re going to—”
She didn’t get a chance to tell Sam what we were going to do. He turned red in the face, glowered at me, and said, “What? What did she just say?”
Giving me a guilty-but-game look, Emmaline said staunchly, “Miss Schwartz is just as much a victim of the late conflict as is Mr. Majesty.” She bowed her head at Billy, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t been paying much attention to my dearly beloved. When I glanced at him, he was grinning!
“Told you they’re all only human,” he said to me.
Curse all men. I decided it would behoove me to take over explanations. After giving my husband a brief smile, I said, “Calm down, Sam. I don’t know for sure what Hilda’s nationality is, although I’ve questioned her several times and believe she’s not Swiss. In fact, I believe she’s from Germany originally. However, Miss Castleton is absolutely correct. Poor Hilda was no more responsible for that ghastly conflict than Billy was. She’s a victim, just as he is. We—Miss Castleton and I—have conferred, and she is. . . .” Hmm. What was she doing? Begging? Imploring? Those words didn’t sound strong enough. I had it: “Miss Castleton is enlisting the assistance of her father to write to our congressmen and any other authorities whose help might be necessary in order to allow Hilda—and another German fellow whom Miss Castleton knows—to reside legally in the United States and eventually become American citizens.”
“At the Salvation Army, we’ll do anything we can to help,” Johnny slipped in.
“Indeed we will,” said Flossie. I was kind of surprised at the firmness of her voice, since she tended to be a little shy in company. Especially in the company of coppers. She hadn’t lived a precisely meticulous life before she’d married Johnny.
Sam seemed to hold his breath for a long time, I presume so as not to release it in a bellow of rage. At last he said, “I see.”
We sat in silence.
Again, he said, “I see.” Then he sucked in a huge breath, released it slowly, and said, “Perhaps we at the department can be of some assistance.”
I nearly jumped out of my chair. “You will?” To say I was astounded would be an understatement.
Giving me a good, hot frown, Sam said, “We’re not unjust at the police department, you know. Miss Schwartz performed a noble service to a citizen of this city. We don’t punish people for doing things like that. Even if they are illegals.”
Illegals. That sounded terrible.
Rather than berate Sam for his crudity, I managed to gather what common sense I had left to me that day and said merely, “Thank you. Both Miss Castleton and I would appreciate that very much.”
“Indeed, we would,” agreed Emmaline.
We exchanged a smile.
Then I thought of something else. “Gertrude—Oh, blast it! Whatever her name is, she told me that her brother had become involved with some low types back East and they’d come out here, and that’s why they wanted to get out of Pasadena. Was that a lie, like everything else she told me?”
Sam seemed relieved to be on safer ground. “Actually, no. She was telling the truth there, although it was in Boston and not in Trenton. I think that’s the story she gave you. It appears that these two participated in the bank robbery and bombing and then lit out with all the loot, leaving the rest of the gang back in Boston, wondering where they and the money were. There were definitely fellow anarchists—if that’s what they really are, and not your garden-variety crooks and gangsters—who’d tracked them out here. We caught one of them a week or so ago—”
I interrupted. I know that’s impolite, but who cared at that point? “You caught one of their gang, but you couldn’t catch them? How . . . inept.”
My mother whispered the word this time. “Daisy.�
��
I didn’t even bother to scowl at her. I pursed my lips and glared at Sam, who wasn’t pleased at my description of his department.
“Not inept. Remember, we didn’t know exactly who we were looking for.”
I said, “Huh.”
“We had a good description of the one we caught. But he wouldn’t talk. He didn’t admit he was looking for the Rossis or why or even who he was. We confronted him with his photograph, and he still wouldn’t give anything up. There wasn’t much we could do.”
“How about the third degree?” I asked. I’d read about the third degree.
He gave me a good frown. “We do not torture prisoners, even murdering, thieving ones, in Pasadena. That’s an old New York custom, and one I hope has gone out of style long since.”
I gave him another “Huh.”
Sam brightened some. “He’s talking now, though. When we brought in the Rossis, he opened up like a geyser. He damned—sorry, ladies. He darned near murdered Vernon.”
“He was there? In the office?” I asked, wondering how this had come about.
“Oh, yes indeed. We wanted to surprise all of them. We figured a confrontation would garner results, and we were right. Battaglia almost killed Rossi and Rossi almost killed Battaglia before we separated them, and Miss Rossi nearly snatched Battaglia bald. I’ve never heard a woman use so much foul language.”
“How distressing for you,” I said in mock sympathy. I shot a warning glance at my mother. I’d been through too much that day to take any discipline from her about my use of sarcasm on Sam Rotondo. “Didn’t you have them in handcuffs?”
“We had them restrained,” Sam said in a neutral tone.
“Not well-enough restrained, it would appear,” I muttered.
He eyed me coldly. “We wanted to gauge their reactions to each other, remember?”
I didn’t even bother with another “huh.”
Billy spoke into the next silence to descend upon us that evening. “Is this going to get Daisy another commendation from the PPD?” He grinned at Sam and then at me.
