Amerikan Eagle (20 page)

Carruthers smiled. “Well, sir, we do mind, if you don’t mind me sayin’, and we’d like to come in and ask a few questions …”

LeClerc started moving forward. Sam stayed where he was, blocking the doorway. “It’s late,” he said. “You know who I am and where I work. If this is so damn important, you can talk to me there. Otherwise, get the hell off my porch.”

Carruthers glanced to his companion, then looked at Sam. Sam tensed, wondering if Sarah was ready; if these two clowns made one more step in his direction, he was going to start throwing punches, and—

The Legionnaire on the left—Carruthers—smiled. “If you say so, sir. We’ll try to get to you tomorrow. At the police station. Tell your wife and boy good night, now, okay?”

Their heavy boots clattered on the worn planks, as they went down the porch stairs. Sam closed and locked
the door, then switched off the light. He realized his hands were shaking.

* * *

The door to Toby’s room was open, the night-light on. Sarah sat on the end of the sleeping boy’s bed. Sam said in a quiet voice, “They’re gone.”

“Who are they?” Sarah whispered back.

“Long’s Legionnaires. Two of them.”

“Oh, Sam …”

“They said they were conducting some kind of survey. I told them to come to my office tomorrow.”

“Sam—”

“I’m going to the cellar,” he said curtly. “I’ll be up in a bit. And Sarah … that was a damn close thing. I hope you know just how damn close it was.”

His frightened wife just nodded, not saying a word.

He went through the open door to the cellar, walked down a few steps, then switched on the light. The basement snapped into view, and there, behind the hanging sheet, he could make out a shape.

“Hey there,” he called, descending the rest of the stairs. “You okay?”

A hand came up to draw the blanket aside, and Sam stopped. The man was a Negro, huge, with penetrating eyes and … hard to put a finger on it, but a presence.

“Hello, and thank you for your help,” the man said. His voice was deep and unexpectedly cultured. Sam came closer, tried not to stare. In this part of the world, one didn’t see too many Negroes.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Is there anything you need?”

“No. I’m told that my travels will continue in just a few hours, and by tomorrow evening, I should be in Montreal.”

Just a few seconds earlier, Sam had been ready to dislike the man who was putting his family in jeopardy, but that feeling was now—inexplicably—gone. He said, “I hope it works out all right.”

The visitor laughed, a full sound that echoed in the old root cellar. “Ironic, isn’t it, that I should find myself here. My own father was a slave on a plantation in North Carolina. He had high hopes for me, he did, and now here I am, a hunted man on a new Underground Railroad. I was in Britain for a while, working before the Nazis invaded, and I came back here, hoping to continue the fight. And look where I am. Alone, hunted, just like my daddy, like a fugitive slave from the last century, on the run from the South. All because of that man in the White House.”

Sam looked at the man closely. Damn, he looked familiar. Hadn’t he seen him in a newsreel or a newspaper? He wanted to ask but didn’t want to pry. “You take care. I’ve got to go back upstairs to my wife and boy.” He held out his hand to the Negro. “Sam. Sam Miller.”

The man shook his hand warmly. “Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Paul. Paul Robeson.”

The name was familiar, but it was time to go.

“Good luck, Paul.”

“Thank you, Sam. I appreciate that.”

Sam left the man and went back upstairs.

* * *

Sarah was in bed, the radio off, and he changed into his pajamas and slid under the sheets. Sarah gently touched his chest, and he rolled to her. “Close. We were that close to being arrested and sent away. Do you understand, Sarah?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “I promise, Sam. He’s the very last one.”

“It’s too late,” he said. “Somebody knows, somewhere, that there’s an Underground Railroad station here. And I don’t mean the marshal. He was just giving me hints earlier. This is much more serious.”

“How can you tell?” she asked softly.

“Because those two Long’s Legionnaires, they saw an open door, and they knew it led into the cellar. They know, Sarah, they already know. At some point, the hammer’s going to fall hard.”

He kept silent for a bit, and then she pressed against him, perhaps frightened more by his silence than the threat the two uniformed men at their door presented. He kissed her cheek, her lips, and she said, “Sam … thanks for keeping them out, for standing up for us.”

“My wife … my little revolutionary … we’re in this together, okay? No matter what. You and me and Toby. The three of us. Always.”

“Yes, Sam. Thank you. The three of us. Always.”

He fell asleep with her sweet scent all about him.

Eyes Only

Report from Party Field Officer H. LeClerc:

On the evening of 04 May ’43, I beg to report that while conducting loyalty check and survey operations on Grayson Street in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, me and fellow Party Field Officer T. Carruthers encountered Party member Sam Miller. Miller refused to answer our questions. Miller refused to allow us entry into his home. Based on our earlier instructions, we were therefore unable to gain entry into his home at this time and perform further loyalty check investigations of the residence.

In light of Miller’s response and lack of cooperation, I recommend the future detention of Miller and family to determine the status of Miller and his home.

Respectfully submitted,

H. LeClerc

Party Field Officer

Badge #4166

Sam got up early, his sleep restless and churning with bad dreams he couldn’t recall. He threw on some clothes without waking Sarah, then went downstairs. The cellar was empty. He took a breath, tore down the sheet, and folded up the cot, tossing the blanket to the floor. With cot and sheet in hand, he climbed a short set of stairs to the cellar bulkhead, which he shouldered open. Outside, it was cold and raw, the thin lawn glittering with frost. It was high tide. He moved to the hedge separating his yard from the Piscataqua River and, in one heave, tossed the cot and the sheet into the river.

He stood there, chest heaving, and then he went back into the house.

* * *

Maybe it was the exhilaration of having made it through the night without a Black Maria rolling up in the driveway, but breakfast that morning was full of smiles and laughter. Even Toby got into the act, finding a straw and blowing bubbles in his orange juice, announcing to his parents that these were “Florida farts” because orange
juice came from Florida. Despite Sam’s bad dreams, the sight of Sarah smiling and making their morning meal cheered him. A couple of times he patted her bottom as he squeezed past her in the kitchen, and she laughingly retaliated by squeezing him back, though in a much more sensitive area that made him yelp and made her grin.

After the dishes were cleared and Toby had gone to his room, Sam spotted a paper bag by the stove. He looked in and saw a couple of old shirts and a pair of pants that had been torn but were now repaired by needle and thread.

He looked up at Sarah. “Another clothing run?”

She wiped her hands on a washcloth. “Yes, during our lunch break. A few of us from the school department are going over to the hobo camp.”

He closed up the bag. “Good. Just don’t go there alone. And I’m glad you’re doing it in the middle of the day.”

Sarah put the cloth down. “And that’s it, Sam. Just this … what we can do.”

He went over to her, kissed her, and held her tight. “Before day’s end, some folks who don’t have anything to wear will be in better shape, thanks to you. Just be careful, all right?”

She tugged at his ear. “I heard you twice the first time, Inspector. Now get going and stop cheating the taxpayers.”

* * *

Sam drove out alone to work, passing a horse-drawn wagon from one of the local dairies, detouring his way to Pierce Island, going over the wooden bridge. He found
the dirt parking lot empty. He stepped out, maneuvered around the broken glass from some shattered beer bottles, saw a flaccid piece of rubber draped over a rock.

Sam looked around. “Tony! You out there?”

No reply. Just the cries of a few seagulls and the whistle of a piece of equipment out in the shipyard.

Sam reached into the Packard, took out a bag of sandwiches he had made quickly while Sarah and Toby got dressed. He went over to a path that led into the woods and, in a few moments, fashioned three sticks that pointed to the left. Another old Boy Scout message. Look to the left. And to the left, at the base of a large pine tree, he dropped the sack of sandwiches. Waited. Waited for movement out in the brush and the trees. One hand went into his coat pocket, about a set of handcuffs.

If Tony came out right now, Sam could get control of one problem. Get him back to his house, toss him in the cellar … So much going on, and to have his escapee brother roaming around …

Waited some more, checked his watch, and then went back to his Packard.

* * *

When he got to his desk, he was pleased to see that Mrs. Walton was out sick that morning. He hated having her nearby, listening in on what he was saying over the telephone, reading his notes and paperwork when he went away, and generally being the nosy woman that she was, keeping track of him and the others in The Log.

He had another pleasant surprise when he settled in his chair: an envelope on his desk with his name scribbled
on the outside, and a stamped return address of
Boston & Maine Railroad. Portsmouth Station. Portsmouth, N.H
.

The envelope felt heavy in his hand. To do the smart thing, to be a smart fellow, would mean tossing the envelope into the trash without opening it. The case now belonged to the FBI and the Gestapo. It didn’t belong to him. But that old man, that tattooed man … Sam remembered what the medical examiner had said. Fuck ’em all. He leaned back in his chair, slit the envelope open. A thick sheaf of papers came out, with a note clipped to the top:

Sam looked at the papers. A collection of blurry carbons listing the passenger manifest of the train from Boston to Portland, the one that just might have been carrying his John Doe.

He dialed the local four-digit number for the B&M station, and when Lowengard got on the phone, Sam told the station manager, “Pat, you did good. Thanks. The department owes you one.”

Lowengard’s voice was shaky, but he seemed happy to be praised. “So glad it worked out, Sam. Is there anything else I can do for the department?”

“Yeah, there is.”

Silence. Just the sound of the heavy man’s labored breathing.

“Only a question, Pat. According to the new internal transport laws, there’s got to be a manifest for the passengers, right? And the manifest is checked by a railroad cop assigned to that particular train?”

“That’s right,” Pat said carefully.

“Good. Now. According to the law, shouldn’t the manifest be checked when the train arrives? To match the number of people getting off the train against the master list?”

“Sam, please don’t hold me to this … I really don’t want to say anymore. I mean, look, I’m in an awkward position and …”

“Pat, whatever it is, you won’t be in trouble from me. I’m just trying to find out if my John Doe got tossed off that train to Portland. If there’s a name on the list that didn’t get checked off in Portland, then there’s a pretty good chance that’s my man.”

No answer.

Sam said, “Things get busy, don’t they? Paperwork gets sloppy. Train pulls in late, nobody wants to hold up the passengers, checking off names. So people look the other way. Maybe there’s a favor. Someone doesn’t even make the list. A good guess?”

“A very good guess, Sam.”

“Then tell me who to call up there in Portland, your counterpart. On the off chance that the paperwork was done right.”

“George Culley,” the station master said. “He should be able to help you.”

“Thanks, Pat.” But by then Sam was talking to a dead phone.

* * *

Sam took a quick bathroom break and then came back to his office, saw a note among the papers. It was from Sean Donovan, records clerk, and all it said was
See me ASAP, v. important, Sean
. Sam called down to the records department. No one picked up the phone.

Later, then, for now it was time for real police work. After going through the local New England Telephone operator, getting a long-distance line, he got hold of George Culley of the Portland office of the Boston & Maine. Culley’s tough Maine voice sounded as though he belonged on a lobster boat and not in a train station, but when Sam told him what he needed, the Mainer’s voice became conspiratorial, like that of a child who had spent too much time listening to
Dick Tracy
.

“Really?” George asked. “A murder investigation?”

“That’s right,” Sam said. “I believe the murdered man was on the express from Boston to Portland three days ago. I have the manifest of those passengers who boarded in Boston. If you have the manifest of the departing passengers, then—”