He reached inside the door to the suite and flipped on the light switch, then entered and closed the door behind him. He went quickly through the suite, throwing light switches and checking the bedroom, the closet, the bathroom, under the bed.
There was nothing unusual—and certainly no one—in any of the rooms.
It had to be one of the guys using the pay phones outside the diner. One of them worked for Lanza and had been waiting there to follow me, then got lucky when he overheard my phone conversation. He may have even seen the number that I dialed.
But then they called ahead, left the message at the hotel before I had a chance to call them.
Did they do that to send a bigger message—“We can find you”—or was it them just not thinking.
Either way, it’s not good.
Dammit, Dick! Watch your back!
He looked around the suite and now noticed that it was very nice.
It had an outer room with two large couches and two oversized armchairs with ottomans, all upholstered in the same fine, light-colored fabric. There was a large oval coffee table, with copies of Time and Look and the Saturday Evening Post magazines on top and a big bowl of potpourri, which gave the room a pleasant, floral scent. A side table between the oversized armchairs held a thin brass lamp and a black telephone.
Canidy put his attaché case on the coffee table—almost dumping the bowl of potpourri—went to the door, locked the deadbolt, then stuck the .45 in his front right pants pocket. The pistol butt stuck out, but that didn’t bother him.
He walked over to the closed curtain that covered one wall. The curtain went from the floor to the ceiling, and when he pulled back one side he saw that Victor, the front desk clerk, had not exaggerated about the view.
The suite did have a very nice perspective on the whole neighborhood, and especially on the private park across the street. The room was up just high enough to see everything, yet not so high for details—the park’s nicely manicured topiaries, dense bushes planted in intricate checkerboard and circular patterns, and such—to be lost in the distance. There was a woman sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches, and he could almost distinguish what she was reading, while a wirehaired terrier pawed at a ball at her feet.
He let the curtain fall closed, then went through the door into the bedroom.
It had elegant wallpaper with vertical pinstripes in navy and silver. The light pine headboard and footboard of the king-sized bed matched the bedside tables on either side and the enormous dresser with its large mirror.
What a waste for one person! Ann would love this!
Canidy went into the bathroom, took a leak, then washed his hands and face at the white porcelain sink.
He removed one of the thick, soft white-cotton hand towels—each one, including the fat bath towels, had GRAMERCY PARK HOTEL stitched in neat green half-inch-high lettering—from the chrome ring affixed to the white-tiled wall and, almost like he was praying, buried his face in it.
What the hell am I getting myself into?
Then he looked up and at himself in the mirror above the sink.
Make the call.
In the outer room of the suite, he went to the armchairs, pulled the pistol from his right pocket, and put it on the side table next to the telephone. He then reached into his pocket for the message with the Lower East Side phone number and sat in the armchair to the left of the phone.
He picked up the receiver, double-checked the number on the message, and asked for 962-7625.
The call was answered on the third ring.
“Dunn,” a deep male voice said.
“Is this WOrth-two-seven-six-two-five?”
“Yeah.”
“My name is Canidy. I have a message to call but no name.”
“Yeah?”
“You didn’t leave this number?”
“What’d you say your name was?”
“Canidy. C-A-N—”
“Hang on.”
Canidy heard the clunk sound of the receiver being put down on a hard surface, then the sound of footsteps, then, faintly in the distance, the sound of the man’s voice relating their conversation. After a moment, the footsteps grew louder and the receiver was picked up from the hard surface.
“Hello?” a different voice said in Canidy’s ear.
“This is Richard—”
“Yeah, I remember,” the voice said sarcastically. “We just met.”
Lanza?
“Listen,” Lanza continued, “that thing we talked about? I got someone you want to meet. Eight o’clock tonight, you go out of your hotel, walk to the northeast corner of the park across the street, and a car will be there to pick you up. Got it?”
I didn’t tell him what hotel. Clearly, he knows. And he’s not making anything of it, just letting me twist knowing that he knows.
“Eight,” Canidy said, “northeast corner. Got it. What—”
“And get out of that uniform. You won’t need it. Get in something you won’t care if it gets dirty. Or wet.”
Wet?
Canidy heard the connection break.
He checked his chronometer. It was three o’clock.
Five hours. Not a lot of time.
Canidy, the .45 tucked again into the small of his back, took the elevator back down to the first floor. At the front desk, Victor was still there, and Canidy asked him where the nearest shop was that he could buy some casual, rugged clothing.
“For any special purpose?” Victor asked.
Yeah, Canidy thought, something that can get dirty and wet. “You know, Victor, mob kind of stuff.”
Hell, I don’t know.
“Khakis, flannel shirt,” Canidy said, thinking about what Lanza and the monster fishmonger had been wearing. He didn’t mention the rubber boots.
“Leonwood’s,” Victor said immediately.
“What’s that?”
“The outfitter L.L. Bean?”
“Yeah, Leon Leonwood. But he’s in Maine.”
“Uh-huh. That’s the main story—with and without the e—but there’s a small basement store on the other side of Union Square that sells last year’s clothes and returns at a deep discount.”
Canidy’s face lit up. “Perfect! Good stuff at a cheap price.”
Victor took a slip of paper and wrote “Leonwood’s, 867 Broadway @ 17th” on it and slid it across the polished stone.
“Thank you,” Canidy said and turned to go through the revolving door.
An hour and a half later, a grinning Canidy walked up the basement steps of Leonwood’s and out onto Broadway.
He carried a big, nondescript brown paper bag packed with three pairs of khakis, two in navy and one brown; a pair of tobacco-colored, waxed-canvas pants; three flannel shirts in dark, solid colors; a pair of black leather boots; a dark brown field coat; three pairs of black woolen socks; two packages of white cotton boxers and T-shirts; a woolen knit cap; and one wooden duck call, something that he had always wanted and Leonwood’s was just about giving them away.
Jesus, I spent a bundle. But for what I got, I saved a bundle, too.
And for what I saved, I can now go to that nice lingerie store and then over to Kiehl’s.
Canidy had more trouble in the lingerie store than he had in Leonwood’s. A lot more trouble. He had been shopping for a half hour and had yet to pick out one nice thing to buy for Ann.
Operative word: nice.
He kept looking at items, picking them up, then feeling guilty and putting them back on the shelf.
This was a helluva lot easier at Leonwood’s. There, I knew what I needed.
Now I don’t know if I’m shopping for Ann—or for me.
He was finally rescued by a pleasant young woman salesclerk.
She walked and talked him through the merchandise, starting out with the silk hosiery.
Damn! I could have picked those out on my own, but no, I had to go straight to the lacy stuff.
One very small but very expensive box later, he was
on his way to Third and Thirteenth, his brown bag only slightly heavier and his wallet significantly lighter.
Filling a shopping basket at KIEHL’S SINCE 1851 was accomplished with much more ease. Canidy pretty much went through the women’s section of the store, putting one or two of everything in it.
How can I go wrong? This stuff’s been winning women’s hearts for almost a hundred years.
He had various bottles of skin moisturizers, face cleansers, bath oils, some kind of cream that softened and removed calluses from feet—and more.
And he splurged on himself, buying a small bar of moisturizing soap to use when he shaved and a stick of antiperspirant.
Now, as he headed back to the hotel, he had a second bag, one nearly the size of—and at least the weight of—the one containing the clothing.
This day is getting more surreal by the moment.
Who would believe I’d be shopping at the same time that I have a date with the mob?
Canidy went through the revolving door of the Gramercy Park Hotel. He looked toward the front desk; if Victor was there, he wanted to thank him for sending him to Leonwood’s. But Victor wasn’t, so Canidy went to the elevators and caught the next one up.
In his room, he put down the bags on the big bed and went through the one containing his clothes, laying out what he would wear that night.
He checked his watch. Six o’clock.
He realized that he had not eaten since breakfast that morning. In Washington.
Have I really covered this much ground in just one day?
I need to catch a nap.
His stomach growled.
And…I need something to eat.
The Gramercy’s lounge was off of the lobby, and Canidy, passing the polished-stone front desk, could already hear the lively crowd before he entered.
The lounge featured a terrific massive wooden bar, small round tables with plush, intimate seating, and a gleaming grand piano at which a fellow was playing what Canidy thought was a Duke Ellington piece.
He took one of the empty seats at the bar and asked the bartender for a menu. While he scanned it, the bartender put a glass of ice water and small bowl of orange fish-shaped crackers in front of him. Canidy popped a couple of the crackers into his mouth.
Mmmm. Cheddar-flavored. Nice.
The crackers almost immediately made him thirsty and he looked at the small forest of spigot handles on the draft beers, saw a good Hessian family name that he recognized as a brewery in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, got the bartender’s attention and pointed to it. When the lager was delivered, he ordered something that he thought would be quick: a steak sandwich with chips.
He sipped his beer and munched on the cheddar crackers, looking in the mirror to watch the crowd in the room.
So who here has mob connections? He grunted. Besides me, that is.
The piano player? One of the waitresses?
The bartender?
Murray Gurfein said that through the unions the mob touched just about everything.
He also said the mob was good about getting union cards issued to the Navy guys for undercover work at the docks, on boats and trucks, in hotels and restaurants.
Not quite five minutes later, the bartender produced a plate with his sandwich.
Canidy looked at him with new interest.
Bet he’s a spook with—what did Gurfein call it?—“Local 16 of the Hotel and Restaurant Workers International Alliance and Bartenders Union.”
“Thank you,” Canidy said, then grinned as he picked up the sandwich.
Nah, he thought, taking a bite. On second thought, even the mob wouldn’t let a Navy guy near the booze.
The sliced steak on a fresh, hard-crusted baguette turned out to be not only quick but first-class. The beef was a sirloin strip that had been lightly marinated and perfectly grilled to medium-rare, the chips were actually more like steak fries, and the fat pickle was crisp, ice-cold, and almost oozed garlic.
Canidy finished his meal in no time—I didn’t realize how hungry I was—and he waved for the check as he finished the last of his beer. He signed it to the room and left.
Back in the suite, he took a hot shower, then pulled on his new clothes.
He folded his uniform and put it in the cleaning bag from the closet, then called downstairs for it to be picked up.
“I’ll need it cleaned and pressed,” he said into the phone, “and returned by first thing—”
He yawned, long and hard, and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It showed seven-thirty.
Fifteen minutes. That’s all I need.
“—in the morning,” he finished, then added: “And I’d like a wake-up call for seven-fifty, please.”
“Yessir, a wake-up call for seven-fifty a.m.”
“No, p.m.”
There was a pause, then, “Yessir, seven-fifty p.m.”
Canidy set the alarm on the windup clock beside the bed as a backup, then pushed aside the rest of the clothes that he had bought and lay down on the bed.
The next sounds he heard—the nonstop ring-ring ring-ring of the phone and the clanging of the alarm clock—shook him from a deep sleep.
He looked quickly at the clock. Eight o’clock.
“Damn!”
He jumped up, collected his thoughts.
He went to the curtain, pulled it back, and looked out at the northeast corner of the park. No car appeared to be waiting.
Okay. Maybe he’s late, too. Let’s go.
He took his .45 off of the bed, stuck it in the small of his back, pulled on the new field coat, stuffed the woolen knit cap in his pocket, then rushed out to the elevators.
He pushed the DOWN button, but neither elevator responded. The indicators over the doors—a half circle of numbers with an arrow, the one over the left elevator pointing to 10 and the one over the right to 1—did not move.
Hell, I’m only on the sixth floor.
He ran down the hallway, pushed open the heavy metal door, and took the bare concrete stairs of the fire escape down two at a time.
He opened the door marked FLOOR 1 and saw that he was down the hall from the main lobby. He went to it, then out through the revolving door.
When he got to the northeast corner of the park, he looked around in the dim light. He still could see no car that seemed to be there for him.
There was, however, a sudden movement behind him, against the fence that circled the park. His hair stood up on the back of his neck, and the pistol in his back seemed a very long way away from his right hand.
Just as he started to turn toward it while reaching for the .45, the movement surged toward him, causing him to jump back.
A well-fed cat then flew down the sidewalk.
Jesus. Get it together or it’s going to be one long night.
He saw a cab circling the park. It made the turn onto the street where he stood, began to slow, then pulled to the curb in front of him. The back door opened.
“Get in,” a vaguely familiar voice said.
Canidy did, but there was no one else in the car, only the driver, who was huge.
The monster fishmonger.
Canidy slid in and pulled the door closed. “Where are we going?”
“Not far.”
He drove off with a heavy foot on the accelerator.
Canidy kept track of their route. The cabbie fishmonger—What the hell else does he do?—made a number of turns and soon was flying south down Second Avenue, headed for the Lower East Side.
No surprise there, I guess.
After a bit of jogging down different streets, Canidy saw a sign reading SOUTH STREET and he decided that they were headed for Meyer’s Hotel.
Maybe all the dead bodies have been cleaned up by now.
Without slowing, they drove right past Meyer’s Hotel.
What the hell?
Two blocks later, the fishmonger turned east and, now driving slowly, wended his way down to dockage on the East River.
Beyond a
tall wooden piling with a sign reading PIER 10 there was moored a rusty steel-hulled vessel about seventy feet long. A cargo truck was alongside it, on the wooden finger of the dock, and what looked like stevedores were moving something off the boat.
“This is it,” the fishmonger said.
“It what?”
“The Annie,” the fishmonger said, then looked over his shoulder. “Get out.”
[ FIVE ]
Room 305
The Adolphus Hotel
1321 Commerce Street
Dallas, Texas
1540 5 March 1943
Rolf Grossman was anxious.
The German agent paced the spacious room of the downtown luxury hotel where he and Rudolf Cremer had been staying since Wednesday, when they had arrived by train from Birmingham.
All week they had been trying to keep a low profile—especially after Grossman’s screwup Sunday night when he dropped his Walther PPK somewhere in the Atlanta train station—and now that something was finally about to happen, he was unbearable.
“How much longer?” he said.
Cremer, sitting at one end of the long couch by the open window, looked casually over the top of the afternoon edition of the Dallas Daily Times-Herald.
He did not like this behavior just before they carried out an operation. Grossman always became too agitated and his heightened attitude tended to make him careless. Losing the damned pistol was an obvious example.
Both men were dressed in simple black suits, white shirts, and black leather shoes that could stand a shine.
Cremer glanced at his Hamilton wristwatch.
“Soon,” he said. “The commuter rush begins in about twenty minutes. Be patient.”
Grossman walked around the suitcases that they had bought in the second-hand store in Birmingham and that they now had placed by the door and went to the Westinghouse radio that was on a table beside one of the two beds. He turned the ON-OFF/VOLUME dial and the speaker crackled. He tried to tune in a station by turning the other dial, but all he got was static. He hit the side of the radio with the open palm of his left hand.
“I’ve hated this hotel since we got here,” Grossman said disgustedly. He almost spat out the words.
The Saboteurs Page 17
