Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

by Jack Martin

  “Judge, you are a fool,” interrupted Dr. Weiss in a bitter voice. “Long has discovered the secret of success that will sweep him into the White House: his Share the Wealth plan. He has discovered that a politician who proposes to rob Peter to pay Paul will always win, so long as there are fewer Peters than Pauls.”

  Pavy frowned at his son-in-law. “Carl, you have to have more faith in the people than that. They can be made to realize that if one part of them can be treated unjustly, all of them will eventually be so treated.”

  “I wish I could have your faith. I really do, Judge. But remember that two years ago, I was performing my residency in Vienna. The residency itself was fine, and I learned a lot, but that was the time when the Nazis were taking over power in Germany, just across the border. The refugees, mainly Jewish, were bad enough. What was worse was the reaction of the Austrian people. Instead of pity, those fleeing the Fascists were mocked and cursed; sometimes stones and bricks were thrown at them, all the while the mobs chanting the Leader’s name with hysterical joy.”

  Pavy waved his hands to quiet his son-in-law. “Carl, you are taking this too hard. That’s because of your Jewish ancestry. Europe is not America. We are more tolerant here.”

  Weiss’s face twisted into an expression of bitterness. “Judge, you are a good man, but you overestimate the number of good people. Try growing up in the South with a name like Weiss. And the joke is that I’m not Jewish! I’m Catholic, as is my father, as was his father. Good people, indeed! Don’t tell me you didn’t read about the lynching of that black man up in Caddo last week. The Sheriff watched as they castrated the man before hanging him! How many other such lynchings are there in a year throughout the South?”

  In an uneasy voice, Pavy replied, “Those were exceptions. I never denied there are bad people in the world, and that they will always be with us, but they are small in number.”

  “That is where we differ. There are enough to elect Long as president, so long as he keeps promising to give to them what the wealthy have. They are too stupid to realize that Long is forging chains of gold that will make us all slaves, not just the blacks!” Weiss’s voice had risen to a loud, shrill screech, and his wife placed a comforting hand on his arm. He looked down at her and made a visible effort to control his breathing. “My apologies, Judge, I did not mean to treat you with disrespect. You have been so good to me, better than I deserve. My nerves sometimes run away with me. I will take a walk around the house to let the night air help cure me.” Weiss bowed stiffly to his parents-in-law and to Bierce, then kissed his embarrassed wife, and left the room at a fast, nervous clip.

  Pavy turned his attention back to Bierce and laughed nervously. “My apologies, Agent Bierce. My son-in-law is a fine man, a respected doctor who volunteers free services to the poor, white or black. The atrocities he saw in Europe have embittered him. He cannot understand that Europe is different from America. Even if Long were to gain the White House, he would not act like that thug in Berlin.” Pavy shook his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, I don’t have much more to tell you. I’ve long suspected that a forger named Rocha had done many illegal things for Long. As you already know, that is a dead end, literally. They fished the low-life’s body out of the Mississippi last month. I can give you the names of some other criminals I suspect of working for the Long machine. You may be able to get one or more of them to talk, although I would not bet the farm on it. Then you might be able to get a jury to convict, although I wouldn’t risk the farm on that, either. Still, I’m glad someone in Washington is interested in stopping Long. It gives me some hope.”

  Bierce took a small notebook and pencil from an inner pocket of his coat. “Please give me the names anyway. I can be quite persuasive.”

  Harry Bierce seldom felt tired, yet this was one of the few times. Having been unable to find a parking spot closer than two blocks from the Roosevelt, his normally brisk stride had slowed almost to a trudge. Judge Pavy had given him some names, it was true, but the Judge had cautioned him that they would be unlikely to have directly witnessed any corruption by Huey Long himself. Bierce’s exhaustion was more psychological than physical. He was beginning to believe that Senator Long might be truly untouchable.

  Bierce was about thirty yards from the entrance to the Roosevelt when a taxi skidded to a stop with a screech of brakes right in the triangle of light thrown out of the entrance. The instant the cab stopped, a door was thrown open and a tall, thin man erupted from the vehicle, his face reddened with rage. A large, heavyset man followed close behind, throwing some bills at the driver as he exited.

  The second man called after the first in a voice revealing the speaker’s Boston origin. “Wait!” the man cried, “I only meant to be hospitable. New Orleans is famous for the many and varied pleasures it can provide the visitor. I had no notion you would take it this way.”

  The first man whirled. Bierce could see the man was in the grip of a barely suppressed fury. In a lightly German-accented voice he replied, “You pig! I am only here because of the threats your friends in my country have made against my wife and children. My every waking thought is consumed by worry for them, by my love for them, and you took me to a whorehouse!”

  The second man laughed, saying, “I am truly sorry. I had no idea our mutual friends have proceeded with such a heavy hand.”

  Seeing the face of the second man, hearing his accent, Bierce was briefly frozen with shock. He recognized the man. Noyes. Jackson Noyes. Bierce’s mind flashed back to 1928 and to one of his very few failures.

  Bierce had been working out of the Bureau’s Boston office. By pure chance he had been in the reception office when Professor Wilmarth, a folklorist at Miskatonic University in Arkham, had stumbled in, shouting incoherently about the murder of a Vermont farmer named Akeley, and the need for the Federal Government to take action, as the local authorities would not. Most of the staff laughed at Wilmarth and made not-so-subtle comments about how even university professors were violating Prohibition. Wilmarth, however, was not drunk. He was, quite simply, terrified for himself and for others. Bierce had taken the professor into a room, talked soothingly to him, and finally managed to get a story of some wild cult in the hills of Vermont that had somehow made away with a farmer named Akeley, a long-time correspondent of Wilmarth’s. Wilmarth said the cult was made up of some men, possibly led by a Bostonian named Jackson Noyes and, unbelievably, some sort of intelligent creatures from outer space.

  Bierce believed Wilmarth was telling the truth, insofar as the Arkham professor understood it. Bierce had some experience with extreme cults and knew they occasionally used exotic drugs to make members have seemingly supernatural visions. He believed Wilmarth had been fed some such drug, and so discounted the tale of creatures from outer space. On his own, Bierce did some investigation, and found that the farmer Akeley existed and that he, along with many others, had disappeared from Vermont, never to be found, alive or dead. He also found that there really was an Jackson Noyes, a prominent Boston attorney who was rumored to dabble in fringe occult activities at Harvard and Miskatonic. After one disturbing meeting with a smirking Noyes, Bierce decided that something was most definitely foul, probably murderously foul, had been going on in those Vermont Hills, and that he would do his best to bring Noyes and those who conspired with him to justice.

  And for one of the very few times in his varied lifetime, Bierce failed. Akeley’s body was never recovered. The Boston Brahmins gathered around Noyes, although there were some hints that this may have been due more to fear than to any liking for the portly attorney. At the end of the day, all Bierce had was Wilmarth. And despite his solid reputation in the academic community, Wilmarth made a pathetic witness. Whatever had been done to the professor had made him a nervous, neurotic wreck. Noyes, acting as his own defense attorney, had torn Wilmarth to bits on the stand. Bierce had cautioned Wilmarth not to dwell on the so-called creatures that Wilmarth insisted he had seen, but under Noyes’ cross-examination he had ended up
screaming that Noyes and others were allied with monsters from another world wishing to use the earth for their own benefit. The laughter from the jury box told Bierce what the verdict would be long before it was delivered.

  Out of pity, Bierce arranged for Wilmarth to receive extended treatment from a brilliant psychiatrist in New York, who eventually convinced the professor that the monsters he had seen had been figments of drugs slipped to him by Noyes and his fellow cultists. The professor was restored to his duties at Miskatonic University, and as nearly as Bierce could learn, was now living a calm and reasonably well-adjusted life. Immediately after the trial, Bierce had done additional investigation in the isolated green hills of rural Vermont, and had found traces that may have corroborated Wilmarth’s story. It seemed that there had been some large mining operations—not listed in any government records—that had been abruptly abandoned. Most of the equipment had been removed, but Bierce had recovered some curious pieces of metal of uncertain purpose or origin. He had taken them to scientists at M.I.T. who claimed they resembled no alloy on Earth and could not even say with certainty what minerals had been used to the forge the metals. In the ensuing years, Bierce had seen to it that the Bureau kept track of Noyes and his activities, but nothing out of the ordinary had been noticed.

  Until now.

  Bierce could not imagine what the socially connected Boston lawyer was doing in New Orleans. He supposed it could be an innocent vacation, but the words exchanged between the German and Noyes indicated it might be something much more serious.

  Noyes continued to try to soothe the German. “My apologies. I had assumed that such, ah, entertainment would be to your taste. Berlin is known world-wide for its free and easy ways.”

  “You speak of the Nazi street trash, and the criminals who gather in any large capital. I am a Prussian officer, sir! I would not bring such disgrace upon myself or my wife.”

  “Well, well, accept my apologies. I was completely in the wrong. Now, it is time for us to meet with the senator. We all have interests and goals in common.”

  “So I am told,” muttered the German. “Let us get this matter concluded.”

  “Very well. The senator is in his suite on the twelfth floor. Let’s go up now. It shouldn’t take too much time.”

  Bierce’s brain slipped effortlessly into high gear. The darkness had kept the two men from noticing him, which left him free to take action. The conversation between Noyes and his accomplice indicated something disreputable, perhaps illegal, involving Senator Long. It seemed to Bierce that fate had finally dealt him a winning hand. If he could only overhear what was discussed, the knowledge might allow him to bring down Long and finally destroy the slippery Noyes. But how was he to overhear? There was no time to place a wiretap. The hall outside Long’s suite would be filled with thugs. The rooms, too, on either side of the suite would undoubtedly be empty, as Long was certain to assure his conversations were not overheard.

  Bierce looked upward at the dimly lit façade of the Roosevelt Hotel. Every few stories, a narrow, stone ledge circled the building, probably meant to facilitate window cleaning. A plan formed in his head—a plan that would have terrified most people, but not Harry Bierce.

  After allowing Noyes and his companion plenty of time to get to the senators suite, Bierce strolled casually into the lobby, nodding to the night clerk, who recognized him. He entered one of the elevators, asking the operator to take him to the twelfth floor. After exiting the car, a quick look to the right showed the entrance to Long’s suite, guarded by the young gunsel with crazy eyes, who Bierce had met on his last visit to the Senator. This was a piece of bad luck. Keeping his head low, hoping that he would not be recognized, Bierce turned left then grabbed the doorknob to room 22, the first room to the left of the elevators. Using his body to shield his actions from the young gunman, he produced his lock pick and in seconds had unlocked the door. Like most hotel locks, opening it was child’s play to someone with training. Now, thought Bierce, comes the risky part.

  Pocketing his small tool, he slipped into the room, locking the door behind him. The lights were on, and Bierce could hear the sound of splashing from behind the closed bathroom door. He had feared that the room would be occupied and had planned to flash his Bureau badge to gain the co-operation of any such occupant. No need, the emanating sounds were uninterrupted, indicating the bather was unaware of his visitor. With catlike tread, Bierce crossed to the window, which like most windows in the hotel was wide open in deference to the muggy nighttime heat of a New Orleans summer. Bierce took a deep breath, and steadying himself by holding the sides of the window frame, he stepped up and onto the window frame, then out onto the narrow stone ledge.

  Bierce estimated the ledge to be about six inches wide. Not as wide as it had appeared from the ground, but not too narrow for the short trip he planned. Keeping his arms and back flat against the brick wall he slowly slid his left foot sideways, next bringing his right foot up alongside. After a quick calculation, he found that three windows lay between him and the nearest of the windows of Long’s suite. Bierce knew that the one nearest to the senator’s room would be empty, but he could not be certain about the other two. He continued. Slide with left, slide with right. Soon he was at the first window. It was open, but no sound or light came from inside. He navigated the opening without incident. Slide left, slide right. Then he came to the second window between him and his goal.

  It was dark within this room as well, but Bierce’s sensitive ears picked up the sound of soft snoring. As quietly as he could, Bierce continued his sliding journey. He had just cleared the window when he heard a sharp gasp, and a woman’s voice say, “Ronnie, wake up! There’s someone outside the window!”

  This was followed by a snort, and a man’s voice said, “Goddamnit, woman! Why’d you wake me up? Gotta bourbon headache I need to sleep off!”

  “Ronnie, I woke up and saw the shadow of a man at the window!”

  “Hell, you were matching me drink for drink tonight. Your man must’ve jumped right otta the neck of a bottle. Or you saw a bird fly by the window. There’s no man out there … it’s a twelve story drop to the street. Forget about it and go back to sleep. And next time, go easy on the hooch.”

  Bierce heard the sound of a large body rolling over in the bed and settling in. After a few mutterings in a woman’s voice, silence reigned. He breathed a sigh of relief, and continued his journey.

  He passed the empty room flanking Long’s suite without incident. As he approached Long’s window, the voices inside became more distinct. By the time he reached the window’s edge, he could hear everything inside perfectly.

  “You’re mighty optimistic, Mr. von Papen, mighty optimistic,” said a voice that was undoubtedly that of Senator Long. “I’m not even president yet and you want to dictate policy to me. Mighty peculiar.”

  “Not dictate, Senator,” replied the voice with a German accent. “We simply wish to see our international interests align. We have no desire to try to influence in any way your domestic agenda.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Long’s voice had acquired a sarcastic tone. “Let me tell you something. I admire a lot of the stuff your boss is doing—dragging your country out of a depression, building good roads, all that—but I don’t like what you’re doing with your Jews. Don’t like it at all. I won’t be doing any of that, and the people wouldn’t stand for it if I tried.”

  “I am sure that the Leader will agree that your Jews are entirely your business,” replied von Papen, who was sure of no such thing. “Our two nations will always address their internal issues differently. All the leader wishes in return for our financial support is your assurance that should France and England again try to oppress Germany, the United States will stay neutral.”

  There was a considerable pause, then Long said, “I think I can agree to that. The folks feel they got nothing out of the last war, and wouldn’t get anything out of a new one either.”

  “I see that we are in acco
rd, Senator. It now remains to see if you will be able to honor your commitments to the friends of Mr. Noyes.”

  “Mighty strange requests they are. You say they want exclusive fishing rights off the New England and Gulf coasts, and a guarantee of there being no submarine or deep-diving operations in those areas? Mighty strange, indeed, and I don’t know how our fishing interests are going to feel about that.”

  Noyes spoke, “Let me remind you, Senator, that my friends will make available to you, two metric tons of gold in bullion, utterly untraceable. I hardly need calculate what that would be worth in cash money. Nearly half again as much as what the Leader will provide you. No competitor, not even Roosevelt himself, will be able to overcome the advantage such wealth will give you.”

  There was another lengthy pause, then Long said, “Well, I expect we’ve got a deal, gentlemen. Everyone is getting a little something from it, and that’s how politics goes.” Long paused again. “You might as well know it now, even if it will be a total surprise to my enemies. Tomorrow afternoon, up in Baton Rouge, I will be declaring my intention to run for President of the United States in 1936.”

  “Huey, that’s too goddamn early!” exclaimed Earl Long.

  “Little brother, we need to start now, seeing as how we are getting the wherewithal from our new friends. Throughout his career, people have underestimated that crippled bastard. I will not be making that mistake. Anyway, you fellers want to be in Baton Rouge to witness a bit of history?”

  “I must be catching a train tomorrow,” replied von Papen stiffly.

  “I would love to be there, Senator, but I’ve neglected my firm’s affairs for too long,” added Noyes smoothly.

  “Huey—ah, Senator—you know I’ll be there,” chipped in Earl Long. “Been with you straight from the beginning. Wouldn’t miss this for the contents of the deduct box.”