The Hunt aka 27 (41 page)

“Then I start dealin’ with Speed himself. He likes big city action. He likes ladies. He likes to play the numbers and the ponies. And.
. .
a big hit, he’s got diabetes. He needs a fix every now and again.”

“Insulin.”

“That’s the ticket. I figure, maybe he went across the river, maybe he’s hangin’ out in Philly. So I do the same thing with driver’s licenses in Pennsylvania and whadda ya know, I get lucky. I come up with three guys, three addresses, and one of the addresses is a phony. Now I figure Spee
d
is a guy name of George Bernhart with diabetes livin’ someplace in Philly. I do the hospitals. My story is, this guy Bernhart, I never met him before, he comes by my place with a friend and he leaves his fixins. I’m afraid he needs the stuff. There’s twelve hospitals in the Philly area. I get to number nine, bingo. again. Now I got a George Bernhart, age thirty-eight, a diabetes freak livin’ at such- and-such in Philly. I stake the place, sure enough, here comes old Speedy down the street packin’ groceries. I make a phone call. Ten days, the job’s old news, I’m back in Manhattan spend- in’ the felt. See what I mean?”

“I get your point. Sometimes it’s the little things that count.”

“Yeah, right. Some oddball piece of information you pick up is what dumps them. If you ever get on to this bird, find out everything you can about him.
Everyth
i
ng.
Plus I got lucky.”

“You make your own luck.”

“I suppose there’s somethin’ to that.”

“What happened to old Speedy?”

“I didn’t ask. See, it’s not my thing. I’m a tracker, I don’t do hits. I don’t even pack heat, that’s what muscle’s all about. Now I’m in industry. I done Lucky Lootch a favor once. Wasn’t for him I’d be sittin’ in the pen someplace. Or maybe dead.”

“What kind of favor?” Keegan asked.

“I’m sittin’ in the holding pen down at the Tombs waiting for my bondsman to show up. I’m maybe
t
wenty at the time, a small-time booster, that’s all. Anyways I’m sitt
i
n’ there and a couple of city dicks walk by and I hear one f them mention the name of a gambling house uptown they’re about to knock over. It’s a place I know is one of Lucky’s. So I make a little noise about my bond man not being there and the desk man lets me out to make another call and I ring up a guy I know knows Lucky and I tell him what’s about to happen and to get the word upstairs real fast. When the cops got there, the place was dark. Not a soul on the premises. Next thing I know my charges are dismissed and Mr. Lootch offers me a spot. I had this knack for sniffing out people didn’t wanna be sniffed out and he kind of cut me loose on my own. I never missed yet.”

“Mr. C. was right.”

“Bet’cher ass. I think I’ll have that steak. Medium well, a potato maybe and a bottle a ketchup.”

“My steaks are all prime beef, you don’t need to douse them with ketchup.”

“I put ketchup on everything. I put ketchup on my Wheaties.”

“Tiny, a T-bone medium well and a potato for Mr. Tangier. Bring the ketchup bottle.”

“Got it,” Tiny answered.

“So where do I start?” asked Keegan.

“Me? I’d start with the
screw-up
. See, you’re lookin’ for something federal around the middle of ‘34, right. Something that happened and maybe the feds are lookin’ for somebody related to that thing, whatever that thing is.’,

“Like what?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe hot cars, that’s federal. Kidnapping. Smuggling. Bank robbery. Maybe somebody movin’ ladies around, state to state
. .

“He wouldn’t be involved in anything like that.”

“Good thinkin’, Frankie. Not if he’s a sleeper like you say, waitin’ for somethin’ to happen, his angle would be to become a needle in the haystack. So, what I’m sayin’, somethin’ happened that maybe he wasn’t directly involved in. Somethin’ would make this John Doe turn rabbit. What could that be, a guy who’s missin’ but the feds wanna talk to him? An eyeball to something maybe? He knew somebody somethin’ happened to maybe?”

“And he couldn’t afford the scrutiny. What I mean, they’d maybe turn up his cover.”

“Now you’re cookin’. Look, how many cases that happened during those three, four months were the feds involved in? Already you narrowed things down a lot.”

“Where would you go if you were this guy?”

“Get lost out in the sticks someplace. Out in the farmland, someplace out past Chicago. Just melt in.”

“How about the South?”

“People’re too nosy down there.”

“Would he know all this?”

“You’d know that better than me. An
yw
ays, that’s the way you do it, pal, hit and miss. Play the logic
.
Put yourself in his place. What would he do next? See what I mean? I can’t take a hand in this, y’unnerstand, with the feds in on it and all.”

“Sure.”

“You got my nose up, though. I hope you make this bird.”

“I’m
going
to make him.”

“Uh huh. I think I believe you there, Frankie Kee. Just outa curiosity, how bad you really want this guy?”

“I want to make a spot on the Street out of the son of a bitch.”

Tangier chuckled in his icy undertone. “Well, look, you run up a blind alley, you got my number, gimme a ring.”

“Thanks, Eddie.”

“Sure. Where the hell’s my steak, they have to kill the cow?”

At three
AM,
the phone jarred him out
o
f a deep sleep. He groped for the instrument in the dark, finally got his hand on it and answered sleepily.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Eddie again.”

“What time is it?”

“Who cares. Listen, I been thinking about this problem of yours. A couple more things occur to me. First, if he come from across the pond, he had to have a passport from wherever he come from. Could be somethin’ there. Tw
o
, he woulda gone for his new ID quick, he wouldn’t wander ar
o
und with a passport lookin’ in cemeteries.”

“I get your point,” Keegan said sleepily.

“I figure he probably hit the East Coast because he would do this fast when he got here,” Tangier continued. “If I was guessing, I’d say he got the name somewh
e
re in north
Jersey or eastern Pennsylvania, outa the Manhattan area but close enough by. Then he’d want to put some distance between him and wherever he picked up his ID so my guess, you look out in the middle of the country someplace, leastways for starters. So now you’re lookin’ for a case happened during those three, four months somewheres out West. See what I mean, I know it ain’t much but it’s better’n goose eggs.”

“I appreciate your help, Eddie,” Keegan said.

“You wanna give this thing up, I’d say you got good reason. But I just got the impression there, talkin’ to ya, this was a big thing with you.”

“It is a big thing with me.”

“Then don’t crap it up. You can find this guy. But I think you’re gonna need some help from the G-boys, looking for what screwed this bucko up back in ‘34. If the guy disappeared it’s gotta be on the books somewheres.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Think about this. What would be the perfect way to disappear? So they’d stop lookin’ for ya?”

Keegan lay in bed staring at the shadowy ceiling for a few seconds then it struck
him.

“Dead. Hell, he’d die.”

“The perfect cop-out, pal. If he faked his death it would stop right there. He’s out clean, comes back later and starts over. Pull all your strings, Frankie Kee. Nothin’ comes easy.”

“I hear you. Thanks, Eddie.”

“Keep in touch.”

Keegan lay in the dark for several minutes.
Pull all your strings,
Tangier said.

He only had one string left to pull.

But it was a good one.

Keegan turned off the main highway
just before he got to the city limits of Princeton and drove about four miles to the tiny village of Allamuchy. It was dark and the misting rain that had plagued him all the way from New York had turned to fog. He might have missed the railroad station completely had he not been stopped a hundred yards from it by four cars blocking the road.

A tall, gaunt-faced man with his hat pulled over his eyes emerged from the fog and shined his flashlight in the car.

“Excuse me, sir, can I help you?” he said in a flat, no- nonsense voice.

“My name’s Keegan. To Visit Car C.”

“May I see some identification?”

Keegan handed him his wallet and his passport. The agent checked the license signature against the name in the passport. He flashed the light in Keegan’s face again, then back down to the passport photo.

“Very good, sir. Mr. Laster will drive down with you if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Laster was a handsome, pleasant man impeccably dressed, although soaking wet. He shook the rainwater off his hat before he got in.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m going to get your seat wet.”

“That’s the least of my troubles,” said Keegan.

“Drive down to your right, past the station. You can cross the tracks there.”

As they crossed over the railroad, Laster told him to take a sharp left. A hulking steam engine loo
m
ed through the fog. They drove past the black leviathan. Steam curled from around
its enormous wheels and undercarriage as it hissed idly, waiting to be stoked up. The private train was seven cars long and was dark except for slender shafts of light streaming from under drawn shades. As they drove the length of the train, Keegan could see the vague forms of bodyguards moving about in the darkness. Then Laster suddenly ordered, “Stop here,” as they neared the last car.

Keegan slammed on the brakes. A slender woman with a wide-brimmed hat came out of the last car, her collar turned up around her ears. A plainclothesman helped her down the steep metal steps, then they scurried through the mist around the back of the car. A moment later Keegan saw automobile headlights flash on the opposite side of the Pullman car. Then he heard an auto drive off.

“Okay, pull down to the end of the train,” Laster said and after hesitating a moment, added: “You might forget what you just saw.”

“I didn’t see a thing,” Keegan said.

Laster smiled without looking at him. “This’
ll
be fine,” he said.

Keegan stopped the car and they got out.

“Just a minute, please,” Laster said as he mounted the steps on the back of the Pullman. He disappeared inside. Keegan lit a cigarette and turned up the collar of his suit coat. The mist was so heavy it collected on the brim of his fedora and dripped off.

Keegan now understood why the president’s private train from Hyde Park to Washington was sidetracked in this virtually nonexistent village. Through the years, Keegan had heard newsmen
j
oke
among themselves about FDR’s “lady friend.” It was a reporter’s inside joke; no one ever hinted at it in print. But Beerbohm had confided to Keegan once that her name was Lucy Ru
t
herf
o
rd and she lived someplace in New Jersey and that Roosevelt had been in love with her since before the war; a twenty-five-year love affair which the press chose to ignore.

A minute or two passed and Laster appeared at the door to the Pullman car and motioned Keegan in. He climbed the steps and entered the private car.

It was laid our as an office, its walls lined with dark wood paneling, the floors covered with thick piled carpeting. A large oak desk dominated the middle section of the car. Behind it was
a bar and to its left a large leather sofa with Tiffany floor lamps on either end. An antique chair sat in front of the desk. The lighting was subdued and the tasseled silk shades were fully drawn.

President Roosevelt sat behind the desk in his electrified wheelchair, dressed in a scarlet smoking jacket and a dark blue silk ascot, his pince-nez glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, a cigarette holder clamped between his teeth, a glass of scotch at his elbow. His face broke into the familiar warm, broad grin as Keegan entered the car.

“Well, Francis, what a grand surprise after all these years,” the president said, offering his hand.

“Mr. President,” Keegan said as they shook.

“Pour yourself a drink and sit down there in front of me,” Roosevelt said, nodding toward the chair. “Sorry about the rain. I trust the trip from the big city wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

“Not a bit,” Keegan said. He poured himself a sour mash highball and sat down. “I appreciate your taking time to see me.”

“I can hardly pass up a chance to say hello to an old friend,” Roosevelt said, enunciating every syllable in his refined accent. “I can’t thank you enough for your contributions to the party over the years, Francis. You’ve been a generous and loyal supporter.”

“My pleasure, Mr. President,” Keegan said. “Are you going to break precedent and go for a third term?”

“Still up in the air, old man,” Roosevelt answered. “My advisers have mixed feelings about it.”

“For what it’s worth, I hope you do,” Keegan said.

“Thanks. You look hardy, Francis. I trust things have gone well for you.”

“No complaints, sir.”

“Excellent, excellent. Before we chat I would like to request that you keep our meeting confidential,” the president said. His eyes had an almost mischievous glow. “A policy of mine, permits me to let what little hair I have down.”

“Absolutely, sir,” Keegan answered.

“One other thing. You mentioned national security. Would you consider letting an adviser of mine, Bill Donovan, sit in?”

Keegan recognized the name immediately. He had heard that Wild Bill Donovan, of the old Fighting 69th, was organizing an information-gathering agency. It would collect intelligence information and analyze it as part of Roosevelt’s attempt to overhaul the entire intelligence system, such as it was—which wasn’t much.

“That’ll be fine, Mr. President,” Keegan replied. But Roosevelt could see a tinge of disappointment in Keegan’s face. He leaned forward in his chair with his hands on the edge of his desk and fiddled with a cigarette, finally putting it in a long, ivory holder and lighting it.

“Francis, do you know how many spies we had when the world war started?” he asked, and held up two fingers before Keegan could answer. “Two.”

“Two!” Keegan said with a chuckle of disbelief.

“That’s right, my friend, ridiculous as it may sound, we had two spies and two clerks supporting them. That was our entire intelligence service. And to make matters worse, what intelligence sources we
did
build up during the war have mostly been abandoned since the armistice. You’ve been to Germany, Francis, you’ve seen firsthand what’s happening over there. We
desperately
need a first-class intelligence agency. Bill Donovan will take on the task.”

“Sir, you don’t have to.

Roosevelt waved a hand at Keegan and cut him off.

“What I’m telling you is public knowledge. But if national security
is
involved in this matter, I would appreciate your sharing the information with him. If this is a purely personal thing, he’s waiting in the club car so I’m sure he won’t get too bored if we leave him there.”

“I think intelligence might very well enter into it,” Keegan said.

“Good.” The president reached under his desk and pressed a button.

A minute or two later a tall, well-built man in his late forties entered the car from the front. Keegan recognized him from photographs. He stood very erect and was dressed in a blue double-breasted suit, starched white shirt and a flaming red tie. He was carrying a drink.

The president made the introductions. “William, this is my friend Francis Keegan. Bill Donovan, Francis.”

Donovan’s handshake was sturdy and his blue eyes stared straight into Keegan’s eyes. “Good to meet you, Keegan,” he said brusquely.

“Colonel,” said Keegan. “It’s an honor.”

Donovan’s poker face did not change. If he was flattered by Keegan’s remark, he did not show it. He sat against the wall on the leather sofa, crossed his legs and sipped his drink. He did not take his eyes off Keegan. Donovan had been a U.S. district attorney in western New York state for several years and Keegan wondered what was going through his mind, sitting in on a meeting with the president and an ex-rumrunner—a man he might have prosecuted a few years earlier—discussing national security. Keegan sensed an incipient skepticism from Donovan. If Keegan had any credibility, obviously it ‘would have to come from the president.

“Congratulations on your new job,” Keegan said. “From what I hear, we need you.”

“Actually it’s pretty dull stuff,” Donovan said.

“Dull?” Keegan said.

“Sure,” Donovan said. “College graduates sitting in offices monitoring foreign broadcasts, reading foreign publications, sifting through diplomatic reports. They dig up information and then the experts decide if it’s pertinent. The fun stuff, the movie stuff, that’s a small part of it.”

“How about the embassies?” Keegan pressed.

“Embassies?” Donovan asked innocently.

“Come on, Colonel,” Keegan said. “Everybody knows the diplomatic services are fronts for espionage. The German embassy in Paris is nothing more than an intelligence unit for a major named von Meister.”

Now how the
hell
would he know that? Donovan wondered. “But,” Keegan said, “since Mr. Hull thinks spying is ungentlemanly all our embassies do is give parties and kiss ass.”

Roosevelt leaned back in his chair and howled with glee. “Well, what do you think of that analysis, William?”

Donovan’s cold countenance softened slightly. He chuckled and said, “Not bad. Want a job, Keegan?”

“No thanks,” said Keegan with a smile. “I tried that in 1917. I don’t take orders too well.”

“You took them well enough to win a Silver Star at Belleau Wood,” Donovan said casually.

Touché,
thought Keegan.

“Well, what do you have for us, eh?” Roosevelt asked pleasantly.

“Look, Mr. President, I think you know I’m not some nut from the boondocks. I say that because what I’m about to tell you is going to sound pretty crazy. The thing is, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure it’s true.”

“Uh huh,” the president said eagerly. He was clearly intrigued. Donovan continued to stare from a poker face.

“A man I consider above reproach has passed information on to me that there is a German sleeper agent living in this country,” Keegan began. “He’s been here for several years. This man is a master agent and his mission, if he’s successful, could neutralize the United States in the event England and France go to war with Hitler.”

“Neutralize
us?” Donovan said, showing only mild interest. “What the hell is he planning to do?”

“Whatever their plan is, this man—his code name is
S
i
ebenundzwanzig,
Twenty-seven—is working directly for Hitler. According to my information, whatever their plan is, it could prevent us from declaring war on Germany.”

“And you have no idea what this assignment is?”

Keegan shook his head.

“That’s ridiculous,” Donovan sneered, showing his first hint of emotion. “What could one man possibly do that would compromise us to such an extent?”

“I don’t know, Colonel, but I can tell you this. The information came from a Nazi agent in Germany who had infiltrated an underground organization. He was caught and tortured. He gave up the name of three agents. The information on the other two was accurate and they were both killed.”

“What underground organization?” Donovan asked, his face once again a mask of control. Not a man to play poker with, thought Keegan.

“My source is impeccable,” Keegan insisted.

“Where did you get this tip?” asked Donovan.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“I think I can promise you the information will never leave this room,” Roosevelt said softly, his smile still staunch. “Don’t you trust us, Francis?”

“Of course I do, Mr. President. But I made a promise.”

“I appreciate that,” said Roosevelt. ‘On the other hand, Bill has a point. It would help if we can judge the validity of your information.”

“Have you ever heard of an organization called Black Lily?”

A flicker of recognition in Donovan’s eyes. Roosevelt looked at him with eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Donovan said.

“It came from the head of Black Lily.”

“You
know
the head of Black Lily?” Donovan said, disbelief in every syllable.

Keegan nodded. Donovan was skept
ic
al. He looked at the president and rolled his eyes. Keegan decided it was time to take a round or two in this mental boxing march.

“His name is Avrum Wolffson,” Keegan said, and Donovan’s amazed reaction told Roosevelt that Keegan had won the first knockdown in the delicate match.

“Does that jibe with your information, Bill?” the president asked.

“I’ve heard the name mentioned,” Donovan said cautiously, still not willing to give up the round.

“Wolffson is unquestionably the head of Black Lily,” Keegan said with finality. “He’s been head of it since it was formed at the University of Berlin in 1933. One of his chief lieutenants was a young man named Joachim Weber. Weber was murdered by Nazi agents in Zurich two years ago. Wolffson’s reaction was radical. He struck back, killed one agent in Zurich and another in Vienna. But the one known as
Siebenundzwanzig
is still alive because he’s here in America.”

Roosevelt settled back in his wheelchair, getting rather perverse enjoyment out of watching the two men spar with each other. Donovan, a bit flabbergasted by the flood of information, was subdued.

“And how did this Wolffson find out there was a spy in his outfit?” Donovan asked, still skeptical.

“The infiltrator used the name Isaac Fish. The real Fish was a prisoner at Dachau. He was executed along with fifty other inmates as an example after an aborted escape attempt. Wolffson got a list of the hostages who were murdered

“Oh, now really Donovan started but Keegan cut him off. He handed him the tattered list of dead hostages.

“This is the list,” said Keegan.

Donovan took the sheet reluctantly and scanned it. He looked up at Keegan suspiciously.

“Where the hell did you get this?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Colonel, I can’t tell you that.”

“You expect us to believe you’re privy to this kind of information?”

“I think it speaks for itself,” Keegan answered. “Wol
f
fson was
. . .
coaxing.
. .
information out of Fish when he spilled the beans about the three agents.”

“Wait a minute,” said Donovan, shaking his head. “I know for a fact that Black Lily isn’t involved in that kind of thing.”

“It is now, Colonel. It isn’t a
Freiheit
movement anymore. It has become a full-fledged active underground operation. The three agents were members of a unit called
Die
Sec
hs
Fuchse,
the Six Foxes, a small, elite intelligence unit headed by a psychologist named Wilhelm Vierhaus and accountable only to Hitler.”

“Jesus!” Donovan exploded. “Where the hell did you learn all this?!”

“The first name on that list is Jennifer Gould,” Keegan said. “She was my fiancée and Avrum Wolffson’s half-sister.”

There was stunned silence in the railroad car.

“Do you know about this unit, Bill?” Roosevelt interrupted. Donovan nodded slowly.

“And she was
executed?”
Roosevelt asked Keegan, gently.

“She was buried alive,” Keegan said. “Along with fifty other prisoners.”

“Good God!” Roosevelt exclaimed. A silence followed, a respectful silence that was finally broken by a now soft-spoken Donovan.

“How fresh is this information?”

“I learned it eight days ago.”

Roosevelt leaned back in his chair again and stared at a corner of the car. According to Hoover, there were several Nazi agents in America. The FBI had been investigating their ties to
the
German-American Bund for over a year. But Hoover had never come up with such specific information.