Authors: Alan Glenn
“It was meant to be, Long being elected the first time around,” Walter said reflectively. “Unemployment was thirty percent, factories were cold, grass was growing in city streets, people were literally starving. When people are scared, they’ll give power to anyone they think will protect them. So he promised change, and we certainly got a whole lot of change. And none of it good. We could have been a great generation, you know, something for the history books, instead of what we’ve become.”
Sam thought of the dead man, thought about his own job.
Do your job and try to keep your head down
. That’s all that really mattered in these days of the Black Marias and political killings and lists.
“And me,” Walter quietly went on. “Blackballed from Harvard, and all because of something I did back in 1934 that put me on a list.”
“In ’34? You were an early hell-raiser, then.”
Another faint smile. “Me and a few dozen others. We were protesting the fact that our learned institution was honoring one of its famed alumni, Ernst Hanfstaengl, who had graduated twenty-five years earlier. Good old Ernst, varsity crew rower, football cheerleader, performer at the Hasty Pudding Club, and in 1934, devoted Nazi, head of foreign press operations for the Third Reich. That Nazi bastard even had tea at the home of James Conant, the Harvard president, even though everyone knew the terror he and his friends were beginning against the Jews and others. So I protested, got on a list, and when I refused to sign that loyalty oath a couple of years ago, that’s all it took. Now here I am, back in Portsmouth—”
He stopped, as Donna dropped off the check on the table and said, “Thanks for coming by, Sam. And even with Larry back, don’t be a stranger, okay?”
“Sure,” Sam replied. “And good luck to the both of you, all right?”
“Thanks, hon,” she said. Walter watched her walk back into the kitchen, and so did Sam. “Walter, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”
“Oh. Excuses, I’m terribly sorry. One of the many curses of being a writer. You forget other people have jobs and responsibilities and places to be.”
The college professor reached for his wallet, and Sam thought of something. “Walter, you’ve been my tenant for more than a year. This is the first time you’ve ever had lunch with me. What’s going on?”
Walter seemed to struggle for a moment and then leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “I’m … I’m sorry to say this, but I was hoping I could ask a favor of you.”
“You can ask,” Sam said. “Doesn’t mean I’ll say yes.”
Walter took that in and nervously looked around again. “It’s like this. In my time in Portsmouth, I’ve made a number of friends with our … our foreign guests. Guests who might not have the proper paperwork. I was thinking—hoping, actually—that if you were to hear word of a crackdown, you might, well, see your way through to—”
“Walter.” Walter’s face was expressionless, as though he knew he had pressed too far.
“Yes?”
“Pay the check. I’ve got to get back to work.”
Walter examined the bill, and the next few moments were excruciating, as the older man counted out three singles and then a handful of change. Sam felt a twinge of guilt. Being a police inspector didn’t earn much, but at least the pay was regular. Depending on money to arrive magically in your mailbox from magazines in New York had to be a tough life.
“Let me help you with the tip,” he said, and Walter’s face colored, but he said nothing as Sam pulled out his wallet. On the sidewalk, Sam said, “Walter, no promises. But I’ll see what I can do if there’s a crackdown. Now. Here’s a question for you: Do any of your refugee friends have tattoos on their wrists? Tattoos of numbers?”
“No, I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why do you ask?”
“I can’t say,” Sam said. “Sorry. But I’ve really got to go now.”
“Very good, Sam. It … it was a pleasure.”
A shiny black Buick wagon with whitewalls went by, two men in the front seat. It seemed as though Walter shivered, standing next to Sam. “A Black Maria, on its rounds,” the older man said. “Such evil men out there, to drive and use such a wagon.”
“Yeah,” Sam said to his tenant. “Such men.” He quickly crossed the street and almost bumped into another man. This time the sign said
EXPERIENCE IN PLUMBING & HEATING. PLEASE HELP. CHILDREN HAVE NO SHOES
. The man looked up at him, chin quivering, cheeks covered with stubble, and Sam murmured a quick “excuse me” and briskly walked back to his own job.
Outside the City Hall and police station, a slight man was pacing back and forth, stopping when he saw Sam approach. He was dressed in a dark brown suit that had been the height of fashion about ten years ago; it had exposed threads at the cuffs. A soiled red bow tie was tied too tight about the shirt collar. The man nodded, licking his lips quick, like a cat that had been caught stealing cream. His face was sallow, as though he had spent most
of his life indoors, which he no doubt had, since the man before Sam was one of the best forgers in the state.
Kenny Whalen said, “Inspector, please, a moment of your time?”
“What’s the matter, Kenny? Still upset that I arrested you last week?”
“Price of the business I’m in, including paying for my bail. But please, a word in private?”
“Just for a minute. I’ve got to get back to my desk.” Sam led the forger down an alleyway and stopped by an overflowing trash bin. He said, “Kenny, I still don’t know why you were so stupid to forge those checks for your brother-in-law. The idiot tried to cash them at the same bank, all at the same time. He gave you up about sixty seconds after I arrested him.”
Kenny grimaced. “If one has a shrew of a wife, one does what one can to soothe the home fires.”
“All right, what do you want?”
“What I want … Inspector, you have me charged with six counts of passing a forged instrument. If I’m convicted on all six counts, I’m looking at five to six years in the state prison in Concord.”
“You should have thought about that earlier.”
“True, but if I may … if I were only charged with
five
counts of passing a forged instrument instead of six, then my charge would be of a lower class. If convicted on all five counts, I’ll be facing one to three years, and if I’m lucky, at the county jail across the street. Not the state prison in Concord. Easier for friends and family to visit, you understand.”
“I still don’t know what you’re driving at, Kenny.”
“You’re a man of the world, you know how things
work. If, for example, one of the charges were to be dropped or forgotten, it would make a world of difference for me and my family. And in return, well, consideration could be made. Favors and expressions of gratitude could be expressed. And, um, so forth.”
“This is your lucky day. I’ve decided to review your charges, just like you’ve asked. And you know what?”
“What?” He asked it eagerly.
“I’ve decided not to charge you with attempted bribery along with everything else. Forget it, Kenny. Leave me alone.” He started out of the alley, and Kenny muttered something. Sam turned and said, “What was that?”
The forger looked defiant. “I said you’ve got a price, just like everyone else in that station! Least you could do is tell me what it is.”
“Wrong cop, wrong day. Can’t be bought.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah, take care of yourself, too, Kenny,” Sam said. “Drop me a postcard from Concord if you get a chance.” Out of the alleyway, the sunlight felt good as he went up the police station’s front steps. He should have felt a bit of pride for turning down a bribe—and this hadn’t been the first time on the force he had done that—but the small victory tasted sour.
The house,
a voice inside him whispered,
remember the house …
* * *
Up on the second floor, he saw a chilling sight: the city marshal sitting at Sam’s desk. Harold Hanson was leaning back, hands across his plump belly, looking up at him
from behind horn-rimmed glasses. Mrs. Walton was at her desk, lips thin, no doubt distressed at seeing the order of the ages upended by the city marshal sitting at a mere inspector’s desk.
“Inspector Miller,” Hanson said. “There’s a gentleman from the FBI in my office, along with another … gentleman. They’re here to see you.”
“About what, sir?”
“I don’t know. What I do know is one of Hoover’s bright boys, with another bright boy accompanying him, are here. You’re going to use my office, talk to them, cooperate, and when they depart, I expect a full report.”
A voice inside him started to nag.
Do it now
, it said.
Tell the marshal about your brother. Don’t try to cover it up. Give up Tony and you can salvage your career, your life, your future. You can tell the FBI you were surprised last night, which is why you didn’t give up Tony earlier. Now
, the voice said, more insistent.
Give him up now and maybe they won’t dig more, find out about the Underground Railroad station running out of your basement, and all will be good, and—
“I understand what you want, sir,” Sam said.
“Good. Now get your ass in there and do what you have to do so I can have my goddamn office back.”
Sam hesitated. Could he trust Hanson to contact Sarah, tell her to grab the boy and leave town before the FBI shipped them off to Utah in a boxcar? And if he asked his boss to do something like that, wasn’t he admitting he was guilty and—
Could he trust Hanson? Or anyone?
Sam walked to the door. He didn’t bother knocking. He just opened it and went in, keeping his head high.
He entered the marshal’s office into a dense fugue of cigarette smoke. One of the visitors was sitting in Hanson’s chair. He was a ruddy-faced, large-framed man with dark wavy hair. He had on a loud gray and white pin-striped suit that said flashy big city to Sam, and his black wide-brimmed hat was on the marshal’s desk. Sitting in one of the captain’s chairs was a second man. His suit was plain dark gray, and his blond hair was fine and closely trimmed. Unblinking light blue eyes looked out from behind round wire-rimmed glasses. His own black hat was in his lap.
“Inspector Miller?” asked the man in the pin-striped suit. He stood up from Hanson’s leather chair, holding out a hand.
“That’s right,” Sam replied, feeling the strong grip as he shook the man’s hand.
“Special Agent Jack LaCouture, FBI, assigned to the Boston office.” LaCouture’s voice was Southern—no doubt Louisianan, for the Kingfish made sure a lot of his boys were sprinkled throughout the federal government.
“Glad to meet you,” Sam said, knowing his tone of voice was expressing just the opposite. LaCouture motioned to his companion, who stood up. Sam froze, knowing the mild-looking guy, who resembled a grocery clerk or something equally bland, must be with the labor camp
bureau of the Department of the Interior. In a very few seconds, he knew, everything was going to the shits.
So be it
, he thought.
But Tony wasn’t mentioned at all. Instead, the FBI man said, “Allow me to introduce my traveling companion. Hans Groebke, from the German consulate in Boston.”
Groebke gave a brisk nod, and his hand was cool as Sam did the usual grip-and-release. Sam made out the faint scent of cologne.
“A pleasure,” the German said in a thick accent, and he turned to LaCouture and rattled off something quick in German. LaCouture listened and said to Sam, “Hans says he’s glad to make your acquaintance and hopes you will be able to assist him in this matter. He also apologizes for his rough English. He doesn’t
sprechen
the King’s language that well, you know?”
They all sat down and Sam said, “What kind of matter are you interested in?”
LaCouture answered, “The dead man by your railroad tracks the other night. We’d like to know how your investigation is proceeding.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, feeling his head spin: the body, not Tony, not the Underground Railroad, that was why the FBI was here! “Why is the German consulate concerned about a dead man?”
LaCouture smiled, revealing firm and white teeth. “First of all, it appears your body may be that of a German citizen, perhaps here illegally. Second, the German consulate doesn’t give a crap about the body. But Herr Groebke does, as a member of the
Geheime Staatspolizei.
”
“The
Geheime
… I’m sorry, what’s that again?”
“Geheime Staatspolizei,”
LaCouture repeated patiently. “The Secret State Police. More commonly known as the Gestapo. Hans is stationed at the Boston consulate.”
How many lurid newspaper stories had Sam read and potboiler movies had he seen, all about the sinister Gestapo in Berlin and Vienna and Paris and London, keeping track of illegals, Jews, anybody opposed to the Nazi regime? Dark stories of torture, of the midnight knock on the door, to be dragged out of your home and never seen again. The Gestapo had replaced the bogeyman to scare little boys and girls at night.
But Groebke looked like an accountant. Nothing like the ten-foot monster in a black leather trench coat, slaughtering innocents across a half-dozen occupied countries in Europe.
Sam said, “I didn’t know the Gestapo were here in the States.”
“Sure,” LaCouture said. “All the embassies and consulates have the Gestapo kicking around. The long arm of Hitler reaches lots of places, and there’s a fair number of Germans who live here. The Gestapo likes to keep their eyes on everything, make sure they’re good little Germans, even in the States.”
Groebke said something in German to the FBI man, and LaCouture snapped something back. “Sorry, Inspector. Hans is a bit impatient. Krauts like everything to be neat and tidy and all official. So, let’s cut to the chase: Did you have a body pop up here two days ago?”
“Yes, we did. An old man, no identification. A homicide. Found near railroad tracks down by a cove off the harbor.”
“Any suspects?”
“No,” Sam said.
“Did he have any luggage with him?” LaCouture asked.
“No.”
“Any papers or photographs?”
“Nothing.”
LaCouture translated the last few answers for the German. Then he said, “How was the body found?”