Amerikan Eagle (5 page)

Hanson sat in his leather chair, and Sam sat across from him in one of the two wooden captain’s chairs. Hanson said, “I heard about the dead man over at the tracks by the Shanty. What do you know?”

“Not much,” Sam said. “A hobo from the encampment spotted him and flagged down Frank Reardon, and then I was brought in.”

“Cause of death?”

“Don’t know,” Sam replied. “The body’s been picked up for transport to Dr. Saunders’s office. I’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Not run down by a train?”

“No.”

“Nothing else apparent, then. Gunshot wound, knife wound.”

“No, nothing like that,” Sam said.

Hanson leaned back in his chair, the wheels squeaking.
His face was impassive, and the lack of expression made Sam shiver a little.

Sam knew his promotion to inspector was due to political play among the police commission, his father-in-law, the mayor, and Hanson—other candidates were unacceptable, and Sam was a compromise—and he still wasn’t sure if Hanson was on his side. Hanson was loyal to his fellow officers to a point, but it was known that Hanson was loyal to Hanson, first, second, and always.

“All right.” Hanson leaned forward, picking up a fountain pen. “Any ID?”

“No papers, no wallet. Just a tattoo on his wrist, some numbers.” In his mind’s eye, Sam saw those numbers again: 9 1 1 2 8 3.

“Luggage? Valise? Anything in the area that might have belonged to him?”

Sam knew he was disappointing his boss but couldn’t help it. “No.”

A tight nod. “All right. What next?”

“Right now Frank Reardon and Leo Gray are conducting a canvass, and I expect their report later tonight. When we’re through here, I’ll type up my notes, give you a copy, send a telex to the state police. Tomorrow I’ll check in with the medical examiner.”

Another nod. “Good. We’ll talk again tomorrow. And Sam? If it’s just an untimely death, if there’s nothing to indicate foul play, drop it.”

Sam shifted in his seat. “But … it might take some time. Blood work from the ME, looking for witnesses, getting him identified—”

Hanson’s lips pursed. “I meant what I said. Drop it. You’ve got enough on your plate with the car thefts, the
amount of bad paper that’s been passing lately in town. Not to mention the store break-ins, for which your father-in-law continues to ride my ass. So if that dead guy is just a dead guy, you drop it. Understand?”

“Yes. I got it.”

“Good. Now here’s something that just came up …” Hanson touched a slip of paper and grimaced. “I just got back from a state Party meeting in Concord. We’ve been directed to look for any evidence of an Underground Railroad station in town. There have been reports of people passing through the Canadian border who’ve been sheltered here in Portsmouth.”

Sam made sure his hands stayed still in his lap. “Sorry … Underground Railroad? I know Portsmouth was a stop back in the Civil War, but now?”

Hanson dropped the paper, annoyed. “Yes, now. Dissidents, protestors, Communists, Republicans, all heading north to Canada so they don’t get tossed into a labor camp, where they belong. So if you see anything suspicious, people who don’t belong, word that there’s human smuggling going on, check it out. Report it to me immediately. The Party is really pressing me on this.”

Sam fought to keep his voice even. “I would think that checking in to an Underground Railroad station here would belong to the FBI. Or the Department of the Interior.”

Hanson said, “Yeah, you would think. But they’re stretched thin, and stuff like that is getting tossed to the local departments. And speaking of stuff being tossed our way, when you go home, I need you to make a delivery for the DOI. They have a prisoner over at the county jail, and he’s due to head out on a train later tonight. Their Black
Maria broke down again, so I said we’d do them this favor.”

“And nobody from the patrol division is available?”

“Well, I understand two are performing a canvass on your behalf, which leaves two others, and there’s a brawl being broken up on Hanover Street as we speak. So no, Sam, nobody’s available.”

“It can’t wait?”

“No, it can’t wait. And I want you to do it. Don’t worry, it’s not some hobo. A well-dressed fellow. I’m sure he won’t piss in the backseat of your car. Get going so you can go home to that pretty wife of yours.”

Sam got to his feet, feeling his face flush at being made into a delivery boy. As he turned toward the door, Hanson said, “Oh, one more thing,” which Sam had expected. Nobody got to leave the city marshal’s office without a “one more thing.”

“Sir?”

Hanson leaned back in his chair, the wood and leather protesting. “The Party meeting tomorrow tonight. Make sure you attend, all right?”

“It’s a waste of—”

His boss raised a hand. “I know you think it’s a burden, not worth your efforts, but in these times, it’s necessary for all of us to sacrifice a bit, to get along, to keep things on an even keel. So. To make myself very clear, Probationary Inspector Sam Miller: You will attend the Party meeting tomorrow night. Have I made my point?”

Once upon a time there had been two political parties, the Republicans and the Democrats. But when Huey Long was elected back in ’36 … well, now there was pretty much one political party in the country.

“Sam?” Hanson pressed.

“Absolutely. But it’s still a goddamn waste of time. Sir.”

“It certainly is, but you’ll be there. And I’ll be thankful for it. And so will your father-in-law. Now get going.”

Sam went out. He slammed the door behind him.

At his desk outside the marshal’s office, Sam carefully slid three sheets of paper, separated by two sheets of carbon paper, into the Remington. Before he started to type, he allowed himself a quick shake, a quiver of nerves. The Underground Railroad in Portsmouth. Holy Christ. He shook his head and got to work.

Sam paused in his typing. No point in saying what Lou Purdue was doing, for he was sure that in addition to retrieving lumps of coal, Lou was also checking out how strongly some of the B&M boxcar doors were locked, up at the collection of sidings just over on the other side of Maplewood Avenue, near the B&M station. Let the B&M cops handle it.

Sam read and then reread the report after taking the sheets of paper from the typewriter. He signed each sheet and put one sheet in a folder for this case, gave another to the department’s secretary. The third sheet he placed in Hanson’s mailbox. He looked at a clock on the far wall, shook his head, and left to play errand boy before getting home to Sarah and Toby.

* * *

As his boss had promised, the prisoner was well dressed, a tall man with a fleshy face and wavy hair. The left leg of his fine trousers was torn open, exposing a bloody knee. His hands were cuffed in front of him and his eyes were unfocused, as if he couldn’t comprehend what was happening to him. He kept silent as Sam bundled him into the rear seat of his Packard, ducking down from the continuing onslaught of heavy rain. The prisoner’s paperwork was tucked inside Sam’s coat, unread, since he had no interest in knowing why this guy had been arrested. All Sam cared about was getting this piece of crap work done as soon as possible.

Sam started up the Packard, and as he backed out into the street, the man said from the rear seat, “Are you FBI? Or Interior Department?”

“Neither.” Sam switched on the wipers, wondering why it was his luck to be out tonight in such a nasty downpour. “Local cop being a taxi driver, that’s all.”

“What’s your name?”

“Miller.”

“Mine’s Lippman. Ever hear of me?”

“Nope.”

“I’ve written some books, used to be a newspaper columnist down in New York … hell, even worked for President Wilson during the last war … now look where I am. Do you have any idea why I’ve been arrested?”

Sam braked at a streetlight. There was a small fire in a nearby alleyway in a metal drum. Three men in shabby clothes were clustered by the drum, holding their hands out over the flickering orange flames. He had a feeling
that the men would be there all night, just trying to stay warm.

“No,” Sam said. “I don’t. Look, I’m just bringing you to the train station and—”

Lippman said, “Suspicion of income tax evasion. That’s the catchall charge so they can hold you until something better comes along. But the real reason—the real reason is that I kept on writing against that damn man and his administration, even after being fired from my newspaper job. That’s my story, friend. Arrested and sent away because of my opinion.”

The light changed to green. Sam let up on the clutch and headed down Congress Street, to the local station of the Boston & Maine railroad. His eyes ached and his car now held a smell of old smoke and sweat. Lippman cleared his throat. “This has nothing to do with you, does it?”

“What’s that?”

“My arrest. That’s not a local charge, not even something your state police would care about. Look, you seem like a good man, Mr. Miller. I mean, this is a lot to ask, but … you didn’t look happy, bringing me out of my cell. I’m sure you don’t like being pushed around by the FBI, the Interior Department. So why not do something about it?”

“Like what?” Only a few stores were open on this main city street, their lights brave against the rain and lack of customers.

A nervous laugh from the prisoner. “Let me go. It’s the proverbial dark and stormy night … just help me out of the car, and I’ll just disappear. I’ll make my rendezvous up in Maine. I know it’s asking a lot, Mr. Miller … but
maybe I can rely on you. A simple thing, really. A prisoner escaping? Happens all the time, doesn’t it? And why am I a prisoner? For what crime?”

Another red light. Even though there were no other cars or trucks out, Sam eased the Packard to a halt. A hell of a thing, to be arrested for an opinion. Sam remembered a time when that hadn’t been a crime. And Lippman was right—it would be easy just to open up that rear door, have the guy tumble out, and let him take his chances …

Yeah. And then what?

“Sir?” came the voice. “Please. I … I don’t think I could handle a labor camp. Not at my age. Please. I’m … I’m begging you to look into your heart, to help me out …”

The light changed. Sam made a turn onto Maplewood Avenue, past the Shanty, and one block later, he was in front of the stone and granite building of the B&M railroad station, just off Deer Street. There, parked in front as if it belonged, was a black Buick van with whitewall tires. No insignia or lettering on the side or doors. The Black Maria didn’t need such markings. Everyone knew what it was and what it carried. The Buick’s hood was open and someone was working on the engine, and standing nearby, in long trench coats and slouch hats, were two lean-looking men who looked up as Sam’s Packard approached.

“Sorry,” Sam told Lippman, tightening his hands on the steering wheel. “I can’t do it.” He got out and opened the rear door and helped his prisoner out.

Standing in the cold downpour, Lippman said hoarsely, “I suppose it was my bad luck to be transported by a man with no heart or soul.”

Sam said, “No. It was your bad luck to be transported by me.”

He turned Lippman and his paperwork over to the Interior Department men and finally went home.

* * *

His home was a small light blue house on Grayson Street, which ran parallel to the Piscataqua River, separating this part of New Hampshire from Maine and eventually emptying into the Atlantic Ocean. He pulled his Packard into an open shed, dodging a Roadmaster bicycle lying on its side in the driveway, and walked out in the rain, feeling sour over his completed errand. The tiny rear yard ran down to a low hedge; beyond the hedge was the river, a tidal river: Four times a day, the rear yard overlooked a smelly mudflat.

He looked at the house again, felt disappointment in his mouth. To be his age and have one’s own home, in this time and place, was a miracle. He remembered how, a couple of years after getting married, when Sarah was pregnant with Toby, he had promised to get the three of them out of a downtown apartment that had plumbing that knocked and leaked, and rats and roaches scurrying around, even during the day. He had done everything possible, gone to the banks, measured up his savings, went without beer for months … but when the time came, he was short five hundred dollars.

Don’t ask how he knew, but his father-in-law, Lawrence Young, the mayor of Portsmouth and the owner of the city’s biggest furniture store, that greasy bastard knew what was going on and had offered a loan. That’s all—a
loan that could be paid back by Sam working weekends at the store, under Lawrence’s supervision, of course, and under the bastard’s eye and thumb.

He didn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. He had found another way—a way that still disturbed his sleep, a way that made sure coming to his home at night gave him little joy, for the money he had finally gotten for the down payment had been dirty money.