Why, this was the thrill of his life! He immediately quit his job working in the back room of a certified public accountant on lower Broadway. He spent the next few days, until the ship sailed, being his typically obsessed self, preparing for his mission as he worked through the night to study diagrams of the ship, practice his role as a porter, brush up on his German and learn a variation of Morse code, called continental code, which was used when telegraphing messages to and within Europe.
Once the ship left port he kept to himself, observed and listened and was the perfect A-man. But when the Manhattan was at sea, he'd been unable to communicate with Germany; the signal of his portable wireless was too weak. The ship itself had a powerful radiogram system, of course, as well as short-and long-wave wireless, but he could hardly transmit his message those ways; a crew radio operator would be involved, and it was vital that nobody heard or saw what he had to say.
Heinsler now glanced out the porthole at the gray strip of Germany. Yes, he believed he was close enough to shore to transmit. He stepped into his minuscule cabin and retrieved the Allocchio Bacchini wireless-telegraph set from under his cot. Then he started toward the stairs that would take him to the highest deck, where he hoped the puny signal would make it to shore.
As he walked down the narrow corridor, he mentally reviewed his message once again. One thing he regretted was that, although he wanted to include his name and affiliation, he couldn't do so. Even though Hitler pri vately admired what the German-American Bund was doing, the group was so rabidly--and loudly--anti-Semitic that the Fuhrer had been forced to publicly disavow it. Heinsler's words would be ignored if he included any reference to the American group.
And this particular message could most certainly not be ignored.
For the Obersturmfuhrer-SS, Hamburg: I am a devoted National Socialist. Have overheard that a man with a Russian connection intends to cause some damage at high levels in Berlin in the next few days. Have not learned his identity yet but will continue to look into this matter and hope to send that information soon.
He was alive when he sparred.
There was no feeling like this. Dancing in the snug leather shoes, muscles warm, skin both cool from sweat and hot from blood, the dynamo hum of your body in constant motion. The pain too. Paul Schumann believed you could learn a lot from pain. That really was the whole point of it, after all.
But mostly he liked sparring because, like boxing itself, success or failure rested solely on his own broad and slightly scarred shoulders and was due to his deft feet and powerful hands and his mind. In boxing, it's only you against the other guy, no teammates. If you get beat, it's because he's better than you. Plain and simple. And the credit's yours if you win-- because you did the jump rope, you laid off the booze and cigarettes, you thought for hours and hours and hours about how to get under his guard, about what his weaknesses were. There's luck at Ebbets Field and Yankee Stadium. But there's no luck in the boxing ring.
He was now dancing over the ring that had been set up on the main deck of the Manhattan; the whole ship had been turned into a floating gymnasium for training. One of the Olympic boxers had seen him working out at the punching bag last night and asked if he wanted to do some sparring this morning before the ship docked. Paul had immediately agreed.
He now dodged a few left jabs and connected with his signature right, drawing a surprised blink from his opponent. Then Paul took a hard blow to the gut before getting his guard up again. He was a little stiff at first--he hadn't been in a ring for a while--but he'd had this smart, young sports doctor on board, a fellow named Joel Koslow, look him over and tell him he could go head-to-head with a boxer half his age. "I'd keep it to two or three rounds, though," the doc had added with a smile. "These youngsters're strong. They pack a wallop."
Which was sure true. But Paul didn't mind. The harder the workout the better, in fact, because--like the shadowboxing and jump rope he'd done every day on board--this session was helping him stay in shape for what lay ahead in Berlin.
Paul sparred two or three times a week. He was in some demand as a sparring partner even though he was forty-one, because he was a walking lesson book of boxing techniques. He'd spar anywhere, in Brooklyn gyms, in outdoor rings at Coney Island, even in serious venues. Damon Runyon was one of the founders of the Twentieth Century Sporting Club--along with the legendary promoter Mike Jacobs and a few other newspaper-men--and he'd gotten Paul into New York's Hippodrome itself to work out. Once or twice he'd actually gone glove to glove with some of the greats. He'd spar at his own gym too, in the little building near the West Side docks. Yeah, Avery, it's not so swank, but the dingy, musty place was a sanctuary, as far as Paul was concerned, and Sorry Williams, who lived in the back room, always kept the place neat and had ice, towels and beer handy.
The kid now feinted but Paul knew immediately where the jab was coming from and blocked it then laid a solid blow on the chest. He missed the next block, though, and felt the leather take him solidly on the jaw. He danced out of the man's reach before the follow-through connected and they circled once more.
As they moved over the canvas Paul noted that the boy was strong and fast, but he couldn't detach himself from his opponent. He'd get overwhelmed with a lust to win. Well, you needed desire, of course, but more important was calmly observing how the other guy moved, looking for clues as to what he was going to do next. This detachment was absolutely vital in being a great boxer.
And it was vital for a button man too.
He called it touching the ice.
Several years ago, sitting in Hanrahan's gin mill on Forty-eighth Street, Paul was nursing a painful shiner, courtesy of Beavo Wayne, who couldn't hit a midsection to save his soul but, Lord above, could he open eyebrows. As Paul pressed a piece of cheap beefsteak to his face, a huge Negro pushed through the door, making the daily delivery of ice. Most icemen used tongs and carried the blocks on their back. But this guy carried it in his hands. No gloves even. Paul watched him walk behind the bar and set the block in the trough.
"Hey," Paul'd asked him. "You chip me off some of that?"
The man looked at the purple blotch around Paul's eye and laughed. He pulled an ice pick out of a holster and chipped off a piece, which Paul wrapped in a napkin and held to his face. He slid a dime to the deliveryman, who said, "Thanks fo' that."
"Let me ask," Paul said. "How come you can carry that ice? Doesn't it hurt?"
"Oh, look here." He held up his large hands. The palms were scar tissue, as smooth and pale as the parchment paper that Paul's father had used when printing fancy invitations.
The Negro explained, "Ice can burn you too, juss like fire. Like leavin' a scar. I been touchin' ice fo' so long I ain't got no feelin' left."
Touching the ice...
That phrase stuck with Paul. It was, he realized, exactly what happened when he was on a job. There's ice within all of us, he believed. We can choose to grip it or not.
Now, in this improbable gymnasium, thousands of miles from home, Paul felt some of this same numbness as he lost himself in the choreography of the sparring match. Leather met leather and leather met skin, and even in the cool air of dawn at sea these two men sweated hard as they circled, looking for weaknesses, sensing strengths. Sometimes connecting, sometimes not. But always vigilant.
There's no luck in the boxing ring....
Albert Heinsler perched beside a smokestack on one of the high decks of the Manhattan and hooked the battery to the wireless set. He took out the tiny black-and-brown telegraph key and mounted it to the top of the unit.
He was slightly troubled to be using an Italian transmitter--he thought Mussolini treated the Fuhrer with disrespect--but this was mere sentiment; he knew that the Allocchio Bacchini was one of the best portable transmitters in the world.
As the tubes warmed up he tried the key, dot dash, dot dash. His compulsive nature had driven him to practice for hours on end. He'd timed himself just before the ship sailed; he could send a message o
f this length in under two minutes.
Staring at the nearing shore, Heinsler inhaled deeply. It felt good to be up here, on the higher deck. While he hadn't been condemned to his cabin, retching and moaning like hundreds of the passengers and even some crew, he hated the claustrophobia of being below. His past career as shipboard bookkeeper had had more status than the job of porter and he'd had a larger cabin on a high deck. But no matter--the honor of helping his surrogate country outweighed any discomfort.
Finally a light glowed on the face plate of the radio unit. He bent forward, adjusted two of the dials and slipped his finger onto the tiny Bakelite key. He began transmitting the message, which he translated into German as he keyed.
Dot dot dash dot... dot dot dash... dot dash dot... dash dash dash... dash dot dot dot... dot... dot dash dot...
Fur Ober --
He got no further than this.
Heinsler gasped as a hand grabbed his collar from behind and pulled him backward. Off balance, he cried out and fell to the smooth oak deck.
"No, no, don't hurt me!" He started to rise to his feet but the large, grimfaced man, wearing a boxing outfit, drew back a huge fist and shook his head.
"Don't move."
Heinsler sank back to the deck, shivering.
Heinie, Heinie, Heinie the Hun...
The boxer reached forward and ripped the battery wires off the unit. "Downstairs," he said, gathering up the transmitter. "Now." And he yanked the A-man to his feet.
"What're you up to?"
"Go to hell," the balding man said, though with a quavering voice that belied his words.
They were in Paul's cabin. The transmitter, battery and the contents of the man's pockets were strewn on the narrow cot. Paul repeated his question, adding an ominous growl this time. "Tell me--"
A pounding on the cabin door. Paul stepped forward, cocked his fist and opened the door. Vince Manielli pushed inside.
"I got your message. What the hell is--?" He fell silent, staring at their prisoner.
Paul handed him the wallet. "Albert Heinsler, German-American Bund."
"Oh, Christ... Not the bund."
"He had that." A nod at the wireless telegraph.
"He was spying on us? "
"I don't know. But he was just about to transmit something."
"How'd you tip to him?"
"Call it a hunch."
Paul didn't tell Manielli that, while he trusted Gordon and his boys up to a point, he didn't know how careless they might be at this sort of game; they could've been leaving behind a trail of clues a mile wide--notes about the ship, careless words about Malone or another touch-off, even references to Paul himself. He hadn't thought there was much of a risk from the Nazis; he was more concerned that word might get to some of his old enemies in Brooklyn or Jersey that he was on the ship, and he wanted to be prepared. So he'd dipped into his own pocket just after they'd left port and slipped a senior mate a C-note, asking him to find out about any crew members who were strangers to the regular crew, kept to themselves, were asking unusual questions. Any passengers too who seemed suspicious.
A hundred dollars buys a hell of a lot of detective work but throughout the voyage the mate had heard of nothing--until this morning, when he'd interrupted Paul's sparring match with the Olympian to tell him that some of the crew had been talking about this porter, Heinsler. He was always skulking around, never spent time with fellow crew members and--weirdest of all--would start spouting hooey about the Nazis and Hitler at the drop of a hat.
Alarmed, Paul tracked down Heinsler and found him on the top deck, hunched over his radio.
"Did he send anything?" Manielli now asked.
"Not this morning. I came up the stairs behind him and saw him setting the radio up. He didn't have time to send more than a few letters. But he might've been transmitting all week."
Manielli glanced down at the radio. "Probably not with that. The range is only a few miles.... What does he know?"
"Ask him, " Paul said.
"So, fella, what's your game?"
The bald man remained silent.
Paul leaned forward. "Spill."
Heinsler gave an eerie smile. He turned to Manielli. "I heard you talking. I know what you're up to. But they'll stop you."
"Who put you up to this? The bund?"
Heinsler scoffed. "Nobody put me up to anything." He was no longer cringing. He said with breathless devotion, "I'm loyal to the New Germany. I love the Fuhrer and I'd do anything for him and the Party. And people like you--"
"Oh, can it," Manielli muttered. "What do you mean, you heard us?"
Heinsler didn't answer. He smiled smugly and looked out the porthole.
Paul said, "He heard you and Avery? What were you saying?"
The lieutenant looked down at the floor. "I don't know. We went over the plan a couple of times. Just talking it through. I don't remember exactly."
"Brother, not in your cabin?" Paul snapped. "You should've been up on deck where you could see if anybody was around."
"I didn't think anybody'd be listening," the lieutenant said defensively.
A trail of clues a mile wide...
"What're you going to do with him?"
"I'll talk to Avery. There's a brig on board. I guess we'll stow him there until we figure something out."
"Could we get him to the consulate in Hamburg?"
"Maybe. I don't know. But..." He fell silent, frowning. "What's that smell?"
Paul too frowned. A sudden, bittersweet scent filled the cabin.
"No!"
Heinsler was falling back on the pillow, eyes rolling up in his sockets, bits of white foam filling the corner of his mouth. His body was convulsing horribly.
The scent was of almond.
"Cyanide," Manielli whispered. He ran to the porthole and opened it wide.
Paul took a pillowcase and carefully wiped the man's mouth, fished inside for the capsule. But he pulled out only a few shards of glass. It had shattered completely. He was dead by the time Paul turned back from the basin with a glass of water to wash the poison out of his mouth.
"He killed himself," Manielli whispered manically, staring with wide eyes. "Just... Right there. He killed himself."
Paul thought angrily: And there goes a chance to find out anything more.
The lieutenant stared at the body, shaken. "This's a jam all right. Oh, brother..."
"Go tell Avery."
But Manielli seemed paralyzed.
Paul took him firmly by the arm. "Vince... tell Avery. You listening to me?"
"What?... Oh, sure. Andy. I'll tell him. Yeah." The lieutenant stepped outside.
A few dumbbells from the gymnasium tied to the waist would be heavy enough to sink the body in the ocean but the porthole here was only eight inches across. And the Manhattan 's corridors were now filling with passengers getting ready to disembark; there was no way to get him out through the interior of the ship. They'd have to wait. Paul tucked the body under the blankets and turned its head aside, as if Heinsler were asleep, then washed his own hands carefully in the tiny basin to make sure all the traces of poison were off.
Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door and Paul let Manielli back inside.
"Andy's contacting Gordon. It's midnight in D.C. but he'll track him down." He couldn't stop staring at the body. Finally the lieutenant asked Paul, "You're packed? Ready to go?"
"Will be, after I change." He glanced down at his athletic shirt and shorts.
"Do that. Then go up top. Andy said we don't want things to look bum, you disappearing and this guy too, then his supervisor can't find him. We'll meet you on the port side, main deck, in a half hour."
With a last glance toward Heinsler's body, Paul picked up his suitcase and shaving kit and headed down to the shower room.
After washing and shaving he dressed in a white shirt and gray flannel slacks, forgoing his short-brimmed brown Stetson; three or four landlubbers had already lost their straw boaters or
trilbies overboard. Ten minutes later he was strolling along the solid oak decks in the pale early morning light. Paul stopped, leaned on the rail and smoked a Chesterfield.
He thought about the man who'd just killed himself. He'd never understood that, suicide. The look in the man's eyes gave a clue, Paul supposed. That fanatic's shine. Heinsler reminded him of something he'd read recently, and after a moment he recalled: the people suckered in by the revivalist minister in Elmer Gantry, that popular Sinclair Lewis book.
I love the Fuhrer and I'd do anything for him and the Party....
Sure, it was nuts that a man would just take his own life like that. But what was more unsettling was what it told Paul about the gray strip of land he was now gazing at. How many people there had this same deadly passion? People like Dutch Schultz and Siegel were dangerous, but you could understand them. What this man had done, that look in his eyes, the breathless devotion... well, they were nuts, way out of kilter. Paul'd never been up against anyone like that.
His thoughts were interrupted as he looked to his side and noticed a well-built young Negro walking toward him. He wore a thin blue Olympic team jacket and shorts, revealing powerful legs.
They nodded greetings.
"Excuse me, sir," the man said softly. "How you doing there?"
"Fine," Paul answered. "Yourself?"
"Love the morning air. Lot cleaner than in Cleveland or New York." They looked over the water. "Saw you sparring earlier. You pro?"
"An old man like me? Just do it for the exercise."
"I'm Jesse."
"Oh, yes, sir, I know who you are," Paul said. "The Buckeye Bullet from Ohio State." They shook hands. Paul introduced himself. Despite the shock of what had happened in his cabin, he couldn't stop grinning. "I saw the newsreels of the Western Conference Meet last year. Ann Arbor. You beat three world records. And tied another one, right? Must've seen that film a dozen times. But I'll bet you're tired of hearing people tell you that."
Garden of Beasts Page 3
