The Hidden Hand of Death

by Lawrence J Epstein

  “I know.”

  I went behind the counter and got Gertie a cup of coffee. Then I sat with her.

  Tommy came in the front door with a helper.

  He bent down to look at the body.

  “Big guy, Ryder. I should have taken another guy along.”

  “I’ll help Tommy.”

  “You certainly will.”

  We lifted the body, put it on the stretcher, and took it outside to the waiting ambulance.

  Tommy’s assistant came back in to clean up the blood.

  He said, “We won’t get it all now, Mr. Ryder. We’ll have a crew here in an hour to finish the job. It’s going to be expensive.”

  I nodded.

  When Tommy left, I reached into my pocket for my reserve money and my rainy-day bill and sat down across from Gertie.

  “I carry around a thousand dollar bill for luck, Gertie. I figured I could use it for emergencies. I’m giving you the bill.”

  “Listen, Ryder…”

  “No, you listen. I told you that you saved my life. I meant it. You could use the dough. This is your run-away money. You save it in case you ever need just to get out.”

  Gertie didn’t speak.

  She put the bill in her apron.

  “You’re the best man I know Ryder.”

  “You’ve got to get out more.”

  Gertie leaned toward me.

  “Why Ryder? Why do you help people? What made you do it?”

  I looked at her.

  “There’s a story.”

  “Oh, good. It will help pass the time.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, Gertie. I’ve never told this to anyone. But you deserve it. I was twelve, almost thirteen. I was racing a bicycle I had borrowed. I didn’t own one of course. They cost money. Anyway, there I was speeding away. Suddenly I saw a tree limb directly in my path. I was frozen. I couldn’t stop. I hit the tree limb directly right between my eyes. I fell backward off the bicycle.”

  “Were you all right, Ryder?”

  “I was aching and bleeding. Suddenly there was this woman. I later learned her name was Mrs. Rosenbloom. She looked old but she probably wasn’t. Anyway she bent down and helped me stand up.

  “I felt dizzy and was unsteady. I couldn’t walk well. She said her apartment was right there. She said to come in and she’d call my family. I didn’t explain that I didn’t have a family.

  “I went inside. I never saw so many books in my life. It was like a library. They were everywhere. It turned out she had been an English teacher somewhere. She said she loved to read.

  “She got me some water and a sandwich. I needed that, but mostly I needed to rest. As I sat there, there was a knock at the door. Two young kids were there. Mrs. Rosenbloom gave them food too. She told me their parents couldn’t afford to feed them. Just while I was there three more kids showed up. She tried to hide it, but I saw her give one of the kids some money.

  “When I was feeling better I asked her just what you asked me, Gertie. Why did she help? She said she believed in God. There were lectures at my orphanage about religion but I never listened.

  “I was old enough to know she was Jewish, but I wasn’t sure what that meant. I asked her who was this God she believed in. She said it was simple. God just wanted us to be good, to take care of others.

  “I listened carefully as she brought people, especially young kids and the elderly into her apartment. Without intending to, she became my teacher. I absorbed the lessons she gave although they weren’t in the form of lessons. They were in the form of kind actions.

  “Sometimes she turned people away. This was one of the most important lessons. I asked her why she had not given them what they asked. She said they would sell what she gave them. She was the one who told me that sometimes being good required being tough.

  “Over time, as I grew I visited her often. She was my real mother in life. I learned goodness and judgment from her. I learned to help the weak and confront the evil.”

  “That’s sure true now Ryder, what with the Nazis. The whole country is pulling together. Is that what she meant?”

  “I guess so. I’m not so good at being part of society.”

  “Yes you are. If you weren’t part of it you wouldn’t care if someone got in trouble as long as it wasn’t you.”

  Gertie hesitated.

  “You look as though you have another question,” I said.

  “I’m afraid to ask. You…no, forget it.”

  “Come on, Gertie. Now you have to ask.”

  “All right, but remember I was the one who tried to stop. It’s just that you talk about this being moral and you help people. But, Ryder, you kill people. How’s that being moral?”

  “It’s what I just told you. The biggest lesson I learned when I grew up Gertie was that being good doesn’t mean just following some simple rules about telling the truth or helping the poor. Being good is the most complex part of life. I’m sure I make mistakes, but even the killing I do is meant to be doing good.”

  I leaned back.

  “Look. Americans right now are shooting Nazis. Our soldiers are doing good, aren’t they? They’re not being immoral.”

  “Of course not.”

  “No, because by killing Nazis they’re stopping the Nazis from killing innocent people. They’re not successful at stopping them yet. The Nazis are going to kill a lot of people who don’t deserve to die. But the soldiers are trying and one day they’ll succeed.

  “That’s my struggle, Gertie. When I kill, I try to kill people to stop them from killing innocent people. It’s not as big or important as killing the Nazis but I still think it’s doing good.”

  “That’s way over my head, Ryder. All I know is when someone needs you, you are there.”

  I smiled.

  “Let’s leave it at that.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I went back to the phones to call Everett Remington at home. There was no answer.

  “I’ve got to get up early, Gertie. You mind if I use the cot in the back room?”

  “I don’t know how you can sleep, Ryder, but, sure, go ahead.”

  I got a couple of hours of sleep, got up, had some food, and spent some time planning. I felt trapped, as though life was a prison and I couldn’t get out.

  That made me think of 75 ½ Bedford Street. I walked over to the West Village and went between Commerce and Morris Streets. The house on Bedford was made of red brick. It had a black door and three floors of windows. It was supposedly the narrowest house in the city although I’ve seen some houses that looked even smaller. I don’t know why but when they built it in 1873, they only made it nine feet, six inches wide. There is one narrow part that is only two feet wide. The poet Edna St. Vincent Millay used to live there. Cary Grant and John Barrymore lived there while acting at the Cherry Lane Theater, which was nearby.

  I liked to come to see the house sometimes when I felt trapped. I liked being in the open air, knowing I could walk in any direction at any time.

  I stood there. Then I paced. Then I finally decided to go after the Nazis.

  I knew that a lot of people thought of Yorkville as a German village within the City. In fact, there were Czechs and Slovaks and a lot of other people there. I had once been hired by a Hungarian who lived there and needed a bodyguard for a night.

  Yorkville ran from the south on 59th Street to 96th Street on the north and from Lexington Avenue over to the East River.

  The German American Bund had originated in the area.

  The German American Bund was one of several Nazi propaganda groups operating in the area. Fritz Kuhn, the Bund’s notorious leader, had been sentenced to prison a few years earlier. He wound up in Sing Sing. The German-American Business League, which was in the same building as the Bund at 178 East Eighty-Fifth Street, provided a list of firms where those who supported the Nazis could shop.

  I had checked about the anti-Nazi Germans in the area as well, especially the German Workers Club and
the German Central Book Store which made a point of carrying the books Hitler had banned.

  Still, I was concerned. I knew Greenwich Village and Hell’s Kitchen. I knew the Lower East Side and the area around Broadway. I knew a little about Harlem. But I didn’t know Yorkville well.

  I went to Penn Station and walked among the cabbies. I saw one who was big and blond with short hair. It was a risk I had to try.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said to the driver, “I need a ride. Do you know where I can get some good German food? This American food is killing me.”

  The cabbie laughed. “Sure. I appreciate a man with good taste. There are a few places you could go to. Franzis-Kaner is on Second Avenue. They have a really good selection. Where are you headed?”

  “Up around 86th Street.”

  “Oh, then you want Hans Jaeger’s. It’s at Lexington and 85th. They have some music, too.”

  “Let’s go.”

  I was silent on the ride up to Yorkville. I gave the cabbie a good tip.

  I went into the restaurant and sat down.

  The waiter came over.

  “What’s good here?” I asked.

  “This isn’t an English restaurant, sir. All the food is good.”

  I laughed. I knew I was supposed to like jabs at the English.

  “Do you have kartoffelkloesse?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And is it fresh?”

  “Of course, sir. We only use the finest pot roast here.”

  “I assume it comes with potato dumplings.”

  “Is there another way to eat it?”

  “No, there isn’t. And bring me your best beer to go with the sweet and sour taste of the meat.”

  When the food came, I ate slowly, savoring the smell and texture of the food. I liked it. I ordered another beer to make sure the waiter would remember me, and when I finished I walked over to the bookstore I was supposed to infiltrate.

  I stood across the street and then went into a coffee shop.

  I sat at a table facing the street.

  A waitress came over.

  “Excuse me sir. This table is meant for several people. Would you prefer to sit at the counter?”

  “I’m waiting for two of my friends. I just want to keep my eye out for them. I’ll tell you what. You let me sit here and I’ll pay for what four people would order. Now that’s fair, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I had some coffee. I watched people coming in and out of the bookstore. It seemed as though it was an ordinary place.

  I called the waitress over.

  “As I sit here, I see that there’s a bookstore across the street. I wanted to get a copy of Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther. I figured in this neighborhood that bookstore should have classic German books.”

  “That’s their specialty. I don’t know that particular book, but the owner, Mr. Huber, is very smart. A bit arrogant at times, but I guess if you’re that smart you’re allowed to be.”

  I nodded, paid the money, and walked across the street.

  The bookstore was larger than it looked like from outside.

  A rotund man with dark-framed glasses was standing behind the counter alongside a young woman with curly black hair.

  I stood still. The woman strongly reminded me of Maggie. I stared at the woman for a few seconds and then approached the man.

  “Hello, sir. I’m a collector specializing in the greatness of German literature. I’m looking for The Sorrows of Young Werther.”

  “Would you like the original edition or the revised edition, sir?”

  “I’m the reverse of most collectors I suppose.” I have a copy of the original edition. I’m always one step behind in getting the 1787 revised edition.”

  “You’re no longer a step behind, I’m happy to say. Karolin here will show it to you.”

  The young woman with the black and curly hair came around the counter and led me to one of the book stacks. I couldn’t stop staring at her. I suppose a lot of men did, but none of them for the reason I had.

  She got the book, turned, and tried to hand it to me. But I was staring into her eyes and didn’t see her hand with the book for a second.

  I finally took the book and walked with her back to the counter.

  I paid for the book and said to the clerk, “I’ve just moved to New York. I want to get back in touch with the German side of the family. My mother came from south of Berlin. My father I’m not sure of.”

  “Your face looks more English than German, sir.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say to a German patriot. You might as well say I have the map of Jerusalem on my face.”

  The clerk bowed.

  “I apologize.”

  “As well you should. Do you have a list of rare books in the store?”

  “Yes sir, but it changes every week.”

  “Then I will return every week.” I leaned forward. “I don’t want to read the forbidden books. Nothing by Thomas Mann, for instance.”

  “We do not carry such books sir.”

  “Ah, this is a bookstore I like.”

  I pursed my lips. “Of course I have The Ship of Fools, but I collect some of Sebastian Brant’s lesser-known work. I’m looking for his works on civil law which he wrote while living in Basel.”

  The clerk’s eyes opened.

  “We’ve never had a call for those sir. People nowadays seem more interested in books about German nationalism and the Jewish problem.” He was shaking his head.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked. “You put all the Jews on a big boat and sink it in the Atlantic.”

  The clerk laughed.

  “It would have to be a very big boat indeed. But the idea is sound.”

  The woman turned around and walked away.

  The clerk turned back to me.

  “Some people are still soft on the Jews. They don’t understand the danger.”

  “Perhaps I should apologize to her,” I said. “I’m just here for the books. Is there a specialist with whom I can speak?”

  “Our owner would enjoy meeting you sir.”

  “My name is Oscar.”

  “The owner’s name is Mr. Huber. He will be here in three days. He arrives precisely at noon if you would like to return.”

  “For a chance to talk about German literature? You couldn’t stop me. I’ll be back.”

  Instead of leaving, I walked over to speak with the woman.

  “I came to apologize to you, Miss. I myself mean no harm to any human being.”

  “That’s not what it sounded like when you said about putting the Jews on a boat and sinking it.”

  “It was a joke I heard. One in very bad taste. I shall never repeat it again.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please, let me apologize by taking you to dinner. I want you to see the real me and not judge me by some stupid and foolish joke I made.”

  Karolin and I agreed on a time and place.

  I said good-bye to the clerk, said I’d be back to talk to Mr. Huber, and walked outside.

  I couldn’t hold back a smile.

  Now it was finally time to search for Detective Hill’s missing sister.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I was up at ten. First I called Vinny.

  “You follow the husband?”

  “Yeah, Ryder. You’re paying me so I did the job.”

  “Good. I don’t need to ask you the questions. Just tell me what you saw.”

  “First of all, it was only a couple of days. I got instincts. You want me to use those?”

  “I’d prefer evidence and facts.”

  “You talk like a cop. The guy went to work. Now there I was smart.”

  “You got someone else to do the job?”

  “Don’t be a wise guy, but in fact I did. A girl. She’s just starting out so she looks like an innocent lamb wandering the twisted streets of the city.”

  “What did the lamb do?”

  “I sent her into the busi
ness. The guy sells cars. This may shock you, Ryder, but he’s not entirely honest.”

  “You should have told me to sit down first.”

  “My girl starts talking with one of the other girls. My girl says she’s looking for a job. The other girl says fine but if she wants one she could get used to the boss’s wandering hands and learn how to lie to customers and ‘accidentally’ charge more on the sales forms.”

  “Your girl did a good job, Vinny.”

  “Don’t I know it?”

  “Anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough, Ryder?”

  “Yes, it is. But I want all the ammunition I can get.”

  “Your man doesn’t spend his time looking for his wife. He comes home, has a drink, and heads out to a local bar. He’s always hunting but not for the wife.”

  “How is he at catching his prey?”

  “Pretty good. Especially when he flashes money. But he’s always in the bar. The women he meets aren’t exactly movie stars. They’re a few years too old and have a few too many lines in their faces and a few too many pounds on their frame. He keeps trying for the younger ones. He wants a knockout, but there he’s a loser. He loses so much, you’d think he’d stop. But not your boy.”

  “Maybe he misses his wife and is looking for some comfort.”

  “He’s looking for some comfort all right. He didn’t find it the night I followed him but it wasn’t for want of trying.”

  “He hire a detective to look for her?”

  “You finally ask a good question, Ryder. Hanging out with me must have helped you. Yeah, he hired a detective. Let me put it this way. If I was him and I didn’t care about my wife, I’d hire the cheapest, most incompetent detective I could find so I could tell the cops I hired a detective. That’s just what he did. I don’t want to make fun of people in your profession, people who get paid for the hard work of detecting, but he got a guy who spends most of his time looking for the bottom of a glass of bourbon.”

  “Thanks, Vinny. That’s all helpful.”

  “You going to see the guy?”

  “Right now. I have an appointment with him in an hour.”

  I paused. “I should bring along a really attractive young woman to shake him up. Maybe he’ll talk more than he planned. You got such a woman?”