The Second Assassin

by Paul Christopher

  Listening to the rain, Bone lifted his hands up in front of his face and examined them. They were relatively small but the fingers were long and very strong. Over time, though, his knuckles had thickened and ropes of vein and tendon had begun to appear. The skin itself seemed to have lost much of its elasticity and had turned to a faintly shiny parchment texture. He thought about the dead bird on the ridge above La Flora and wondered what had brought about its death. An incautious movement? A split second of careless inattention? A trick of the sun that had blinded the creature for a fatal instant?

  John Bone clenched his fists and felt small twinges of painful tension that he wouldn’t have felt ten years ago. Not arthritis, just age. He was closer to forty than he thought he’d ever be and if his hands didn’t betray him soon it would be his eyes. Buying the Cool Rays in the lobby shop had been a necessity; his eyes were far more sensitive to light than they’d been only a few years ago and any kind of glare was painful. At night, his depth perception was half of what it used to be. Any work requiring the cover of darkness was now out of the question. This job and perhaps one or two more after it and then he would be forced into retirement by his own physical inadequacies.

  On returning from the library John Bone’s initial reaction had been to pack his bag and leave, taking the first available transportation back to Havana. Instead he turned to the night table and picked up the telephone. He first placed a call to the Shushan Airport Terminal on Lake Pontchartrain and then, with the help of the hotel operator, he was connected to a number in New York City. The call to New York was answered on the second ring.

  ‘Yes?’ The voice had the slightly muffled electrical echo of most long-distance calls.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Uncle Charles,’ Bone said quietly.

  ‘This is Uncle Charles.’

  ‘Do you know who this is?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the voice from New York. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Yes. The venue for the meeting is now unacceptable.’

  ‘It was acceptable to you before.’

  ‘Not any longer.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Bone. ‘It would appear that your people are now employing the services of the Carolla family in New Orleans. It would also appear that a number of other people will be at the meeting, including a congressman from Texas and the ex-assistant of a United States senator, now deceased.’ Bone paused. ‘The presence of either one of these men at any possible meeting is also unacceptable.’

  ‘Why is that?’ The voice wasn’t particularly defensive, just curious.

  ‘Too many people are involved in this already. These men are politicians. Politicians are by their very nature unable to keep secrets for very long.’

  ‘Two people can keep a secret as long as one of them is dead,’ said the voice from New York.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A quote from Benjamin Franklin,’ the voice explained. There was a long pause. ‘There must be a meeting to conclude our business.’ He paused again. ‘There are terms to be discussed.’

  ‘Not with those men. And not in that place.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘You,’ said Bone. ‘And one other. No more than that.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bone. ‘I won’t risk being here more than another day.’

  ‘I suppose I could get a flight out this evening.’

  ‘You can,’ said Bone. ‘I checked to make sure. There’s an Eastern Airlines flight leaving Newark Airport at ten-thirty tonight travelling by way of Washington and Atlanta. It arrives in New Orleans at seven-thirty in the morning.’

  The pause was shorter this time. ‘All right.’

  ‘Will you be alone?’ Bone asked.

  ‘No. I’ll have one other person with me if he can arrange to get on the flight in Washington.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘How do I contact you?’

  ‘Check into the Roosevelt Hotel under the name Thorn. I’ll leave a message for you saying where and when the meeting will take place.’ Bone hung up the telephone. He looked out the window; the rain had ended as quickly as it had begun.

  John Bone spent the remainder of the day making arrangements for the following day’s meeting, which included renting a room above a restaurant in the French Quarter. With his business done, Bone walked over to Canal Street, then a few short blocks down to Royal Street. He bought an old suitcase at a pawnshop on the corner then walked another block over to the Hotel Monteleone, almost as large as the Roosevelt and equally anonymous.

  He checked in, paid for three nights’ lodging in advance and after dropping his empty suitcase off in his room he went down to the hotel’s Carousel Lounge with its slightly idiotic revolving bar, had a drink and then enjoyed a crab cake dinner in the hotel dining room. Appetite satisfied, he went back to his room, switched on the complimentary radio to the Monteleone’s own radio station, WDSU. At that time of the evening the local station combined with the NBC Blue Network and for the better part of an hour Bone lay in the dark listening to Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadians doing a medley of songs from Show Boat. Eventually he fell asleep.

  At 10:00 a.m. the following morning John Bone stood in the shadows of a doorway across the street from the restaurant he’d chosen and watched as a bright yellow Nola cab pulled up in front. The restaurant, Antoine’s on St Louis Street, occupied the main and second floors of a well-kept four-storey building. As Bone had discovered the previous afternoon, the shuttered rooms on the third and fourth floors were accessible by walking up a staircase leading from the ornate ironwork of the second-floor veranda.

  Two men climbed out of the cab. As the taxi drove off Bone saw that both men were dressed in dark three-piece suits far too heavy for New Orleans weather. The shorter of the two men had grey hair, wore metal-rimmed spectacles and had a moustache. He appeared to be in his mid-forties. The second man, broad-chested, big-bellied and at least ten years older than his companion, had dark thinning hair brushed back from a broad forehead and large, slightly protruding eyes. He was clean-shaven, wore no glasses and smoked a large black cigar.

  Bone kept watch as the two men consulted with a white-aproned man sweeping the sidewalk in front of the restaurant’s dark-panelled entrance. The man with the spectacles and moustache reached into his pocket, took out a folded bill then pressed it into the sweeper’s hand. The Negro nodded, leaned his broom up against the open doorway and led the two men into the restaurant. A few moments later, the two men, alone now, reappeared on the fire escape and climbed slowly up to the fourth floor of the building. The bigger man seemed to have some difficulty and paused several times before they reached a small, metal-grated platform at the top of the fire escape. Finally, the two men stepped through the open French doors set into the dormer and disappeared into the room Bone had rented for the meeting.

  Bone, who had been at his post across the street for almost an hour before the arrival of the two men, waited five minutes more, making sure that they had come alone. When he was satisfied he crossed the street, entered the restaurant and followed the two men up into the fourth-floor room.

  At John Bone’s request the room had been emptied of all furniture except a small plain desk and three chairs. Two of the chairs had their backs to the French doors, while the third had its back to the door that led to an interior staircase. At Bone’s request the door had been locked from the inside, ensuring that the only way in or out was via the exterior fire escape. The two men had taken the chairs obviously meant for them. As Bone stepped down into the room they both turned to look at him. Looking over the shoulder of the grey-haired man with the spectacles and the moustache, Bone saw that he already had a stenographer’s notebook and a pen ready on the table.

  ‘I’d advise against putting anything down on paper,’ said Bone. ‘For everyone’s sake.’ Bone went around the table, checked to make sure that the door was still locked then sat down across from th
e two men. ‘Which one of you is Uncle Charles?’

  ‘I’m Uncle Charles,’ said the grey-haired man. The flat, slightly nasal accent was clearly New York. ‘I always take notes,’ he said firmly.

  ‘No,’ said Bone.

  ‘Do as he says, Allen,’ the other man suggested. The voice was quiet and rang with a rich Texas twang, which, to Bone’s ear, was almost a contradiction.

  ‘Who are you?’ Bone asked.

  The big man smiled and took a tug on his cigar. ‘Just a country boy,’ he said softly, ‘doing my part.’ Keeping his eyes on Bone he put out his right hand and pushed the offending notebook and pen towards his companion. Uncle Charles took the broad hint and put the notebook away. ‘I understand y’all didn’t like the meeting place we arranged. That so?’

  ‘It is,’ Bone said. The man across from him was going to some lengths to make himself out to be some kind of country bumpkin but his eyes were hard, cold and calculating.

  ‘Didn’t care much for the people we were bringing either, now, did you?’

  ‘As I said before, they’re politicians.’

  ‘Young Lyndon’s more than a politician, sir, believe me. Bound for glory, that boy is. No telling how far he’ll go.’ The Texan smiled even more broadly. ‘Depending on the circumstances.’

  ‘How much does he know?’ Bone asked, glancing at the man from New York.

  ‘Nothing,’ Uncle Charles responded. He gestured towards the Texan. ‘Only that my friend here requested he be at a meeting of some importance.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘The same,’ said the Texan. ‘Lyndon knows some people here in Louisiana. Next-door neighbours, so to speak. He talked to Gerry Smith. It was Smith who laid on the security measures you objected to. Mr Carolla and his people, that is.’ The Texan lifted his big shoulders and dropped them, smiling. ‘Sorry if we gave you offence but I have to say, sir, that we don’t do this every day.’ He paused. ‘We have our professional talents, but when it comes to… this sort of thing, we’re amateurs.’

  ‘I understand,’ Bone said.

  ‘Perhaps we should get down to business,’ said the man from New York. ‘We don’t have a great deal of time.’

  ‘Suits me,’ said the Texan. Bone said nothing. There was a long, almost physically unpleasant pause. Outside on the street Bone could hear a barker for the Pelican Lottery hawking tickets:

  ‘Four, ’leven and forty-four,

  Four ’leven and forty-four,

  Bring that number ’fore I lose my head

  ’Cause my woman’s in that yeller-man’s bed’

  Finally the man from New York spoke up. ‘My friend here and I represent interests who find the thought of America involving itself in another world war abhorrent. Clearly, however, Mr Roosevelt intends to take us into just such a conflict.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘He must be stopped. At all costs, he must be stopped.’

  Bone remained silent. The big man smoked his cigar and waited for his friend to continue. Eventually he did so.

  ‘A number of us feel that through political scheming, blandishments of one kind and another and outright lies, the president has positioned himself in the American public eye as some sort of saviour. He has the entire nation hoodwinked.’

  ‘And you intend to save the nation from Mr Roosevelt?’ said Bone, unable to resist. He’d been at a dozen meetings like this one, had heard variations on this same theme as many times. Cain had probably used the same justifications to himself before slaying Abel.

  The Texan took the cigar out of his mouth and leaned forward across the desk, his large, slightly goggled eyes staring at Bone. ‘No, sir,’ he said, his voice still soft. ‘We intend to save ourselves and the people we represent from Mr Roosevelt. Powerful people, sir, people who don’t much care for what the president has done to business in this country and who care even less for what he intends to do if, God help us, he is elected to another term.’

  ‘And these are the people who wish to hire my services?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Texan. He clamped his teeth down on his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘We were going to discuss terms,’ said the man from New York.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,’ said Bone, his voice flat and unemotional. ‘Half deposited into an account I keep in Bermuda within the next seven days. The rest on the satisfactory completion of the task.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said the man from New York. ‘That is a great deal of money, sir.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Bone. ‘But you and your friends are getting a great deal in exchange.’

  ‘He’s quite right,’ the Texan said. ‘The visit of Their Royal Majesties is most definitely part of Roosevelt’s third-term campaign strategy. It is meant to be a triumph. This will turn it into tragedy.’ He paused. ‘There will be no third term.’

  ‘Do you think you can actually accomplish the task?’ asked the man from New York.

  ‘Certainly.’ Bone nodded. ‘I wouldn’t be having this meeting if I believed otherwise.’

  ‘How will you do it?’ the Texan asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Bone. ‘It’s not important that you know.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’m not sure of that either.’

  ‘It must take place on American soil,’ insisted the man from New York. ‘That is of primary importance. It cannot take place during the Canadian portion of their visit.’

  ‘I understand,’ Bone said.

  ‘Can we be of assistance in any way?’ asked the Texan. ‘The people we represent have resources you might find useful.’

  ‘I prefer to work entirely alone,’ said Bone. ‘In my experience most plots such as this die stillborn due to lack of security.’ He paused. ‘The fewer people who know of my existence the better.’ Bone stared across the table at the two men. ‘I’m quite certain that by now too many people already know too much but that can’t be helped.’

  ‘Then we’re agreed?’ said the Texan. ‘We can proceed?’

  The man from New York hesitated, his lips parting as though he was about to speak, but the Texan brought up a large hand and placed it on his companion’s shoulder. The man from New York nodded. ‘We’re agreed.’

  ‘How will we contact you?’ the Texan asked.

  ‘You won’t,’ Bone answered. ‘I’ll contact you, if necessary.’ He stood up. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘A name?’ the Texan asked. ‘We’ll need one.’ The man sounded almost eager, as though he didn’t want the meeting to end, as though he relished it. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be using the one you gave us any longer.’

  ‘Green,’ Bone said. ‘Green is as good as any other.’

  He glanced at the man from New York. ‘I’ll call you with the necessary bank information.’ Bone bowed his head slightly. ‘If you will, gentlemen, wait five minutes or so before you leave.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘You could even have some lunch downstairs. The oysters are delicious.’ With that he went around the desk and went through the French doors and out onto the fire escape. Then he was gone.

  The two men sat for a moment and then the Texan stood and climbed up onto the dormer. He glanced out through the opening. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘He may be good at what he does,’ said the man from New York, ‘but he’s not much of a businessman.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  The grey-haired man got up from his seat and joined his friend at the window. ‘What if he succeeds and we decide not to pay him the rest of the money?’

  ‘We won’t do that, Allen,’ the Texan answered, shaking his head. His cigar had gone out and he relit it carefully with a small gold lighter that seemed oddly dainty for a man of his bulk. He blew a plume of heavy smoke back into the room.

  ‘Why won’t we?’

  ‘Because,’ said the Texan, puffing hard on the cigar, ‘if we were that foolish, the pale-faced son of a bitch would find out who we were and track us down and kill
us, one by one by one.’

  The man from New York reached into his pocket and took out a pipe. He lit it with the Texan’s lighter then sent up his own blue cloud of smoke. ‘Well at least he doesn’t know about the other thing.’ The pipe made a small gurgling noise and the man took it out of his mouth and peered into the bowl.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Texan. ‘Our ace in the hole.’ He glanced out the window again, a faint shadow of worry flashing across his features. ‘Let’s just pray that your friend Mr Green never finds out about that.’

  Chapter Ten

  Saturday, April 22, 1939

  Southampton, England

  Thomas Barry took the early-morning train from Euston Station and arrived at the cavernous Southampton Terminal just past noon, carrying his single suitcase. The inside of the huge, gloomy departure terminal was filled with milling crowds of passengers, porters and well-wishers and the scores of vehicles that had brought them to the docks. In addition to the train there were lorries bringing last-minute supplies to the ship against the dock just outside, dozens of taxis, buses and limousines from London and a fair number of private cars. Luggage trolleys moved to and fro, tourist-grade and third-class passengers checked in at the trestle tables set up close to the pier-side doors that opened up to a view of the huge ship’s high, gleaming white-liveried flank, while first-class passengers and their farewell parties took one of several large cage elevators to the upper level of the terminal building and then crossed onto the ship over the canvas-topped D deck gangway.

  As arranged, Barry met Holland at the magazine kiosk across from the ticket agent’s table, half pushed along by the other passengers rushing off the train. It seemed as though everyone in the cavernous building was calling loudly to someone else but even through the welter of sound Barry could hear the steady rumble of the idling ship’s engines. He felt a sudden stirring within himself that he found surprising and almost embarrassing. This was Drake and Cook and Voyageurs in grand canoes, James Fenimore Cooper, Red Indians and all the myriad other fantasies every young boy had, rich or poor. Spotting the bald-headed figure of Holland standing at the kiosk, blithely smoking a cigarette and leafing through the Times, Barry put on his sternest face, careful to hide anything that even whispered the word adventure. Suddenly a massive, basso-profundo blast from the ship’s horn rang out, shaking the entire building, energising the crowds around Barry to a new frenzy. Holland looked bland as a lamp post. He flipped his newspaper closed and pushed out his cigarette in a wooden sandbox bolted to the side of the kiosk.