The Hidden Hand of Death

by Lawrence J Epstein

  When the waitress left, I stared at “Mary.”

  “Okay,” I said, “Tell me about the imitation.”

  “I was promised some dough.”

  I took out the hundred dollar bill.

  “It’s got your name on it. After you talk to me.”

  “How do I know you’re not just going to get up and leave? I’ve had some bad experiences with men.”

  “I’ll bet you have. But I’m not them. You can bet I’ll give you the money because if I don’t then you’ll tell people I can’t be trusted. If people can’t trust me, I’m out of business.”

  She wasn’t sure, but she nodded.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You imitated Daisy Miles?”

  “Yeah. Of course. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Were you hired to tell people you were Daisy?”

  “Sure. This guy approaches me, tells me what a great actress I was. He got my name from the sleazy agent I work for. I’m no great actress, Mr. Ryder. I was on Broadway once. A walk-on. I was a waitress who gave somebody a cup of tea. Watch out Bette Davis.”

  “Did this man tell you his name?”

  “He said his name was John Smith. I told him he was so original he should be a writer for the movies.”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a picture of Miles.

  “This the guy?”

  “Yeah. That’s the low-life. He was trying to get a lot for his money if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  The waitress came back with the coffees. We each took a few slips.

  Then the actress said, “Yeah, he was after me, but I slapped him away. You’re in big trouble if you start with men who tell you that you’re real pretty and that you should make some money from your looks.”

  “So what did he say?”

  She shrugged.

  “A straight business deal. He wanted me to go to stores and pretend to be this Daisy Miles. He gave me identification and checks. They were already signed. I’m not forging anyone’s signature.”

  “Good for you. Did he tell you why he wanted you to do this?”

  “I didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell. I thought of it as an acting job. I was being paid to be an actress. You can’t get too picky. There’s lots of girls, they get in to Port Authority from farms and towns and cities all over the country. People where they lived told them they looked like a Hollywood star. If enough people tell them they believe it. So they head to Hollywood or New York and they figure money and fame are waiting on Hollywood and Vine or Broadway. Then they find out life isn’t like that. It’s not at all like that.”

  “I’m sorry. Why don’t you head back home?”

  “Right now they think I’m an actress. I go back, my parents, my sister, my friends, the boys I knew, they all think I’m not an actress but a failure. If I’m gonna suffer, I might as well do it here. At least there’s a chance I’ll get a break.”

  I just nodded at her.

  “Listen, Mary. I need a contact number for you.”

  I didn’t want to tell her that she might have to testify in court. I was worried she’d jackrabbit out of the city.

  “I have a few contacts. Agents, producers, people like that. You have a good face. Sometimes people ask me if I know a good actor or actress. If I come across somebody and I think you’d be good for the part I want to be able to contact you.”

  “That’s real nice of you, Mr. Ryder.”

  “Sure. Just write down your name and phone number.”

  She had a card in her pocketbook, so she took it out and handed it to me.

  “Thanks, Mary.”

  “You have the money now?”

  “Sure.”

  I handed her the hundred dollar bill.

  I went to the phone in the back of the place and called Detective Hill. I told him about Mary.

  I said, “Tell Miles what you’ve got. Better yet tell his lawyer. Get the D.A. to cut a deal with him.”

  “I wish I could send him to some place like the Black Hole of Calcutta.”

  “You don’t want a trial. You don’t want to drag your sister’s name through this, Detective. Let Miles cut a deal. He’s going away for a long time. The lawyer will know that.”

  “He deserves to be fried in Sing-Sing.”

  “What he deserves and what’s good for your sister are two different things.”

  “Thanks, Ryder. You did a really good job with this. I’ll pay you. I promise.”

  “When you can, Detective.”

  “I owe you one, Ryder. Don’t push too hard. I’m still a Detective. But I owe you one.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call if I need you.”

  “I know you will.”

  I suddenly felt dizzy. I staggered back to the booth. Then I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t.

  I reached for the coffee, but I couldn’t hold the cup.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Ryder.”

  I tried to answer, but my voice wouldn’t cooperate.

  Then I slumped over.

  My eyes were still open.

  I could see the two large men with jackets.

  They were coming right at me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  One of the two big men walked over to the waitress and gave her an envelope. She just nodded and put the envelope in her apron.

  The other man held up his hand.

  “Everyone take it easy. This man is a friend of ours. He often has fainting spells. We know what to do. We’re going to take him to the doctor.”

  I tried to scream. I tried to run away. Nothing.

  The two men pulled at me, got me up, and each held him under one of my arms.

  One of the men stared at the actress Mary.

  “If you’re smart, your memory will get real bad.”

  “I’ve already forgotten,” she said.

  “Good.”

  They took me to a car waiting outside and dumped me in the back seat. One of the men climbed in after me and pushed my body over. I couldn’t resist.

  The other man got in the front seat.

  “Go,” he said.

  The driver, looking nervous, was glad to get out of there. The man in the front seat was giving directions. We didn’t go far.

  “There. Into that garage.”

  The driver did as he was told.

  “Now stop.”

  The driver hit the brakes hard.

  “You see us today?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t see anybody today.”

  “That’s a good way to keep breathing.”

  The two men got out, put me in the trunk of another car. When the first car had gone, one of the men drove the second car to what I later learned was an abandoned factory.

  I was still conscious. I could see and smell the dust around me. The two men dragged me for a while. I pretended I couldn’t see or feel anything. I was looking for some small advantage.

  The men took me into a room, threw me on a dirty cot, and slammed the door shut.

  I waited a few seconds for them to leave. Then, very slowly, I sat up. The smell of the room was overwhelming. There were no windows. There was one rickety wooden chair and the cot on which I rested. The ceiling of the room sloped, high on one side covering most of the room and low, with beams, near the only door.

  I was pretty sure who had done this. I wondered why they hadn’t just shot me and then I figured that they decided there were too many witnesses or the man who arranged it wanted to enjoy watching me die.

  The men, or maybe just one of them, would be back soon to take me to see the boss. My legs were too weak to charge at anyone who opened the door. They had removed my .44 and my knife. I had told myself to carry a Derringer in a holster around my back, but I hadn’t ever followed through.

  There was no clever trick, no hole in the floor from which I could jump up, no springs in the cot which could be shaped into a weapon, no strength to jump at the men and kick them.


  All the tricks were gone. It was back to basic survival.

  I took the chair over towards the door. Then I climbed on the chair, felt dizzy and thought I was going to fall, and then steadied myself.

  I grabbed a beam on the ceiling, kicked the chair over and hoisted myself as high as I could. I knew I should have waited until I heard footsteps in the hall because now I would have to hold on until someone opened that door.

  It seemed like ten minutes, but it was only two minutes later when the door opened.

  The first bit of luck. Only one of the men came in. I jumped on his back and hit him hard in the neck. He went down. I kicked his face, bent down, grabbed his revolver, and hit him several times over the head.

  There was blood pouring out of one of the wounds. I was satisfied. The man was out of action.

  I opened the door. The hallway was dark. I stayed close to one of the walls, moving slowly in case there was a passage I didn’t see or a person crouched in waiting.

  I heard some noise and turned the corner.

  Then I saw an open door and light coming out of it.

  I took my shoes off and began walking and then crawling toward the room with the light. I listened and heard two voices.

  “Carlo should have been back by now,” one voice said. “I’m going to look for him.”

  “Give him five more minutes. Maybe he wanted to kick Ryder around a bit. I know I would have.”

  “Yeah, I suppose…”

  I stood and walked in the door.

  The other big man was standing.

  I shot him twice in the head and then stared at the other man.

  “Why if it isn’t Everett Remington.”

  “Put that weapon down, Ryder. I wasn’t going to hurt you. I could have had you killed on the spot. I could have paid that waitress to put poison in your coffee and not just a Mickey Finn. My men could have shot you there or on the ride over here or once you got here.

  “But I didn’t Ryder. I wanted to talk with you. I wanted to reach an agreement.”

  “You decided to forget I killed your brother, I guess.”

  “He was a bully. Somebody was going to get him sooner or later. I’ve got to take care of myself.”

  “You already tried to kill me once.”

  “Yeah. And my man just disappeared. You’re a tough target, Ryder. Everybody knows that. I decided it would be better if we just put our weapons down and learned to live with each other.”

  “Somebody write that speech for you, Everett? I mean it comes within spitting distance of sincere. If I were a complete idiot I might spend a few minutes listening to you. But I’m only a semi-idiot, so I know you brought me here to show me who was going to kill me. My guess is you had some torture in mind. And then you personally wanted to put a bullet in my head. Why don’t you be a man and just say so?”

  “Because then you’d kill me.”

  “I have some good news and some bad news for you Everett. The good news is that I don’t torture anybody. The bad news is I don’t believe a single word of the lies you’re spinning.”

  I sighed.

  “I’m not a very religious man, Everett. I don’t go to any kind of church, not even for Christmas or Easter. But maybe, just maybe, I believe there’s a God looking over us wanting us to do what’s right. Wanting us to do what we can in a tough world to take care of ourselves and each other. Wanting us to protect the weak and bring justice to people like you who crush the weak. In case there is that kind of moral God, I want to give you a chance to confess your sins to that God right now and seek forgiveness.”

  “Now you’re playing games, Ryder. You no more believe in God than you believe in Santa Claus. We both know you’re going to shoot me. We both know if the situation was reversed, I wouldn’t go on and on about some invisible guy in the sky who has a white beard and cares one bit about the animals called human beings who crawl around the Earth like snakes. So go ahead. Just shoot me.”

  I nodded.

  Then I shot Everett Remington, who fell over onto his desk.

  I checked to make sure Remington was dead and then walked outside. I went over two blocks and found a taxi.

  I had to get up early so I went home and collapsed onto my bed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was the third day since I had been to the German bookstore. The clerk had told me that Huber, the owner, would arrive exactly at noon.

  I had a cup of coffee. Then I opened my closet and pulled out a toolbox. I took the shelf inside out and reached underneath it.

  This was it. The money I hid for difficult times. Those times had finally arrived.

  I put the money in my pocket. I spent one minute worrying, and then caught a subway to Yorkville.

  I began walking the streets, meeting storeowners, saying hello to people who looked friendly.

  At ten minutes after noon I walked over to the bookstore.

  The rotund clerk with the dark-framed glasses was at the front counter standing still. Karolin, the woman with the black, curly hair was putting books on one of the shelves.

  I walked up to the man.

  The man smiled. “Ah, it’s Oscar isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “You’re a good manager, sir. Remembering customers’ names is at the top of any list of valuable skills.”

  The man half-bowed.

  “You had mentioned to me that Mr. Huber would be in at noon today, sir. I’m wondering if he’s here.”

  “He certainly is, Oscar. He got here forty minutes early. I told him about you. He’s in his office. Karolin!”

  The woman came over.

  “Karolin, would you please take Oscar here to Mr. Huber’s office.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  We began to walk.

  “Five o’clock today still good for you?” I asked.

  “Yes. I want to go to a nearby restaurant where they know me. We are, after all, still strangers.”

  “Your call, Karolin. Wherever you’re comfortable.”

  “Good.”

  We got to the office door, and Karolin knocked.

  “Enter.”

  Karolin opened the door and led me inside.

  Huber looked up.

  He was tall with blond hair. I thought he had a military bearing, a man with Prussian discipline and a hardness useful in carrying out distasteful orders.

  “This man is named Oscar, sir. He…”

  “Yes. I’ve been told about him. Come in and take a seat, Oscar. Thank you Karolin. You may go.”

  She left and I sat down across the desk from Huber who sat down in his chair.

  “A pretty girl, don’t you think?” Huber asked.

  “Yes, I do. But she’s too soft on the Jews.”

  Huber laughed.

  “She is. I’m just surprised to hear you say that so directly. It encourages me. If you were some kind of agent, I think you’d try to be friendly first. Tell me what a wonderful bookstore I have for example. You’d wait for a delicate moment to bring up the Jews. So that’s one point in your favor.”

  “Thank you Herr Huber, but I’m not seeking favor.”

  “Good. Tell me about yourself, Oscar.”

  I shrugged, trying to act like a humble Oscar.

  “My name is Oscar Weber. Before you ask, my mother’s family was from England. Kent, more precisely. My father’s family was from Germany. Near Berlin. The older I get the more Germanic I feel. I collect rare classic German books, but I’ve also become more of a German nationalist, especially since the War began. America had no right to declare war on Germany. It was the Japanese who attacked the United States.”

  “Oscar, I appreciate your words. You understand that I must be careful. There are people who try to infiltrate our community, Oscar. Spies and traitors. FBI agents, even Jews who think they can fight the Nazis right here in New York City. I’m sad to say that there are people who are one hundred percent of German stock who do it sometimes. They betray their race. What fools. But you see
I have to be careful.”

  “What can I do to prove I am not one of those spies and traitors Herr Huber?”

  “What are you willing to do?”

  I pretended to pause and think.

  “I’m not quite sure I know what you mean, Herr Huber. This is a bookstore. What can I possibly do?”

  “Pretend you walked into Nazi headquarters. You were speaking to Himmler himself. What would you volunteer to do.”

  More pretend thinking.

  “I’d say the truth. That I was a German patriot, that the Germans were in a war to the end. Either the decadent West with its Jews would prevail or the Aryan world would prevail. There is no middle ground. As a patriot, I would volunteer to do whatever I was asked. I’m positive the Nazis would know what was needed a lot more than I would.”

  “We’re in a desperate situation now, Oscar. The FBI is rounding up our agents. I can smell them. I know FBI agents when I see them. You’re not one of them. Or you’re very good. But you have a toughness to you. You know you need to be tough. Am I right?”

  “If called upon, I can be very tough.”

  “Oscar, I need to talk directly to you. I need to trust my intuition. If we were still at peace, I’d have you do small operations to prove your loyalty. A task here. A task there. I’d look those tasks over. I’d see how you did. But time has robbed me of my preferences. I no longer have the luxury of slow and deliberate steps. So I will make it simple. I am going to trust you. Are you willing to carry out a dangerous mission for your people?”

  “I’d be proud to do it.”

  “Good. I have a package. I can’t tell you what’s in it. I want you to deliver it to a flower shop on 92nd Street. Deliver it at night. Tonight at 2 a.m.”

  “Sir, I deserve to know if it’s explosives. That would make a difference.”

  “No. The package is not in and of itself dangerous. But the information it contains will be helpful to our cause.”

  “I will of course do it.”

  “I mean no offense, Oscar, but I’ve sealed the package shut. They will know if you’ve tampered with it.”

  “I would never do that Herr Huber.”

  “Good. This is very important because of its timeliness. You understand?”

  “Of course. It will be there at two a.m.”