It had happened too fast, too suddenly.
He could see Stella and Krame through the curtain of yellow grass that sheltered him. The other two men were leaning on the porch rail, searching the channel for him, their guns ready, their faces hard in the fading yellow light. Stella's pale green sweater stood out vividly against the white boathouse wall. She was talking to Krame, who towered over her, smiling, his red bead bent to listen. He said something and she shook her head. She looked directly down the channel to where Durell was hiding.
He could not understand the expression on her face. From this distance, he sensed excitement in her parted lips, her quick gesture, her nod to something Krame said.
Durell crouched, shuddering with cold, up to his neck in the icy salt water. His legs ached with cold, but he did not move, not wanting to disturb the reeds over his head and give away his position. He watched Krame put a hand on Stella's arm. She pulled angrily away. Again she looked down the channel and said something. Krame shook his head. He called to the two hoodlums and the men came away from their posts.
Apparently they thought they had hit him and killed him when he had surfaced the first time. Maybe Stella had convinced Krame of that.
She made no effort to resist when Krame ordered her back to the car. She followed quietly, with her lithe stride, beside the redheaded man, behind the hulking gunmen. A moment later the sound of their car motor came to Durell over the wind-ruffled water. His wrists and ankles were numb. His teeth chattered. The sunlight faded from lemon to gray as the car appeared briefly, circling over the rough lawn to vanish behind Blossom's weathered Victorian house and then speed up the road.
Durell stood up slowly and waded back to the opposite shore of the channel.
Ten minutes later he stood wrapped in a large towel, drinking bourbon in Blossom's kitchen. The dead agent still lay untouched in the sitting room, and Durell did not bother to look at him again. He helped himself to sliced cold beef and some bread, which he swallowed between long pulls at the bourbon. He did not think be would ever be warm again. He left his clothes in a wet bundle on the kitchen floor and rummaged upstairs in Blossom's bedroom, the only one furnished, and found a blue serge suit that fitted reasonably well, added a white shirt and dark figured tie, fresh socks. Blossom's black shoes were too narrow to be comfortable, but they were better than his own sodden cordovans. He finished the beef and the bread, took one last drink of bourbon, and felt better, physically, but no other way.
There could be no explanation to General McFee about his delay, his loss of Stella Marni. the general disaster that had followed him. There were no excuses he could give to Blossom, because Blossom was dead, and so was Frank Greenwald; and unless he was too far wrong, Stella Marni would be on the
Boroslav
bound for Hungary within the next few hours.
He could never explain Stella Marni to anyone. Whatever she was, whatever she had done to him, he did not quite understand himself.
He was no better or worse than Harry Blossom, in some ways. Blossom was dead. And for all intents and purposes, as far as Washington was concerned, Sam Durell could be dead, too.
Slowly and gradually, his anger came.
He sat still in the growing dusk in the sitting room and looked at Blossom's ashy, dead face, but he did not see Blossom or the curved fireplace of Vermont marble, or the faded plush curtains over the tall windows that yielded an evening view of lavender salt marshes and darkening sea.
He went over everything that had happened from the moment Art Greenwald had talked to him in Washington three days ago, asking him to help his brother. He hadn't helped much. Frank was dead, and maybe Art had died by now, too. And then Deirdre had joined the picture and he had hurt her grievously, not wanting to hurt her ever. But it was done. There were Blossom's warning words. Blossom's sudden destruction as a man and a fine agent. And his failure to work with Tom Markey. He went over everything. He spared himself none of the mistakes he had make.
His anger grew.
He knew now which had been the biggest mistake of all.
He moved differently, with purpose and organization, when he stood up. He knew what had to be done.
He found the telephone in a hall alcove under the wide dark stairs. It was growing dusk when he called the hospital to inquire about Art Greenwald. The supervisor gave him no information except to state that Art's postoperative condition was as well as could be expected.
He phoned his hotel next and asked for Deirdre Padgett. It rang in an empty room. She was not there.
His next call was to Clem Anderson, in Washington. When Anderson's mild voice replied, Durell asked what had been done about Captain Grozni's family in Gdynia.
"Been waiting to hear from you, Sam," Anderson replied. "I gave it top priority, as you asked. We contacted the family — mother and daughters. Living in an apartment at Drodensing Street Our man talked to the subjects personally. They're on their way West."
"How?"
"Fishing boat on the Baltic. I'm supposed to hear the minute they land. But anything can happen, Sam. They might have been caught, the boat stopped by a patrol — anything. We don't know they're safe yet."
"How much longer do we wait? I need Grozni," Durell said impatiently. "He won't play ball unless his people are absolutely safe."
"I hope to hear in about an hour, Sam. Can't do more."
"All right. Thanks, anyway."
Durell's next call was to Tony Isotti. Tony spoke quickly:
"Sam, we're in trouble. Don't talk. I think the line is bugged. Markey is after us with all his shootin' irons. I'm only here to pick you up and take you back to Washington. McFee's orders. It's a real hassle, shaping up into a board of inquiry for you. The Attorney General and State have been like a couple of cats spitting at each other. McFee wants the White House to mediate. So far it hasn't nil the newspapers, but if it leaks, our throats get cut."
"It's not that bad, Tony," Durell said.
"Where in hell have you been?"
"Detained. But not willingly."
"Are you all right, Cajun?"
'I've got some things for you to do," Durell said. "I know we're off the case officially now. But did you check out the officers of the New American Society?"
"Yeah. John Kxame president, H. T. Lament treasurer, William X. McChesney secretary."
Durell was not surprised. "You're sure about Krame?"
"It wasn't easy to get. They had a dummy list of executives. Park Avenue people who went through the motions and didn't know the score." Isotti laughed sourly. "For every nominal officer, they had a shadow executive doing the real work. You've got the right names."
"Where does the money come from?"
"Philanthropies, subscriptions, and points unknown."
"Any foreign money?»
"Could be. I ran my head against a blank wall there. The books have a few items specified by the usual charity sour. but it's only a pittance. Most of the cash income is listed under miscellaneous."
"What about Lamont and McChesney?"
"Lamont has a police record under a couple of aliases as a con man specializing in charity rackets. Comes from Quebec, originally. Also some felony raps against him in Kansas City, and one here in New York for heisting a fistful of jewels from a society woman out on Long Island. He did four years' time in Ossining from '38 to '42 for gas-station stickup. He was young and wild and woolly then. No real violence since that time."
"McChesney?"
"Fourteen arrests, no convictions. A pet of the local vice squad. They'd love to rap him, Sam. Suspected of pimping, peddling horse, smuggling Swiss watches, distributing feelthy films. Not a junkie himself, but seven arrests on suspicion of distributing, as well as a number of minor con rackets. He's on the Attorney General's subversive list, too, as a member of front organizations. They have him down as a strong-arm goon for subversive outfits, strike busting, the usual labor racketeering. Real pretty history, but slippery as an eel. Married to a former night-club dancer, Gerda Smith, once billed as the Bell Dancer. She works for the society, too."
"It figures," Durell said. "Birds of a feather. What about Damion?"
He takes care of all the business front. Far as I could see, he's blank. An honest John who handles all the legitimate collections and babies the members. Retired as an accordion manufacturer, naturalized citizen born in Poland, has just enough private income to let him play with his pets. He may be clean."
"Good, Tony. Meet me at the society house in an hour.
"Sam, we've got to get back to Washington."
"Later. We'll wind this up tonight. Have you got an extra gun?"
"Sure, but..."
"Bring it for me."
"Sam, do you know what you're doing?"
"Bring me a gun. In one hour."
Durell hung up. He sat still, his eyes bleak and brooding, was quiet in the house. He wished for a cigarette, but he had none. After a moment he asked the operator for the New York FBI district office. Tom Markey was at his desk. Durell spoke rapidly and Markey was ominously silent for the first few minutes. Then Markey said:
"I've got a bug on you, Cajun. We've traced the call. You're at Blossom's place. You stay there, bear me?"
"I'm coming into town. Did you crack Krame's studio?"
Markey seemed annoyed. "Yeah. Found the hoodlum you say you killed. And the cage up in the tower. Quite a spot. This big fellow with the broken neck was Karl Poltovsky — a dock worker. Also acted as part-time cook at the New American Society."
"And the safe?"
"We got Krame's books. You can read about it in the papers. You stay where you are, Cajun. Stay there with Harry Blossom, hear?"
"Harry is dead," Durell said.
There was another long silence while Durell described what had happened. He did not withhold anything. There were times when it had to be played by ear, and times when organization was the only way to produce results. He counted on Markey's innate sense of duty and decency, on Markey's training, to put the case first, above any personal vexations.
"So they've got the girl again,*' Durell said. "And her father. They won't trust her any more. Maybe they've killed her already. They won't risk letting her testify to Senator Hubert's people again, and that means if they don't kill her they'll smuggle her out of the country fast. Tonight, probably, on the
Boroslav."
Durell paused. "We need her, Tom.
"We've checked out the ship twice. We'll do it again, but..."
"Not yet. We have to knock over the New American Society first. Pick up Krame, McChesney, Lamont, the Smith girl. They may use a plane instead of the ship, but I'm betting on the
Boroslav.
They could play the shell game with Stella Marni aboard, even if we had fifty men for the search. We can get a few from Immigration and Customs, but not enough. Stella could be hustled from one hiding place to another aboard that rat's nest and we'd never find her."
"We could get an order to hold the vessel in port," Markey said, grudgingly agreeing with Durell's plan.
"The minute someone shows up with a paper in his hands, there will be a diplomatic stink and we'll never find Stella. They'll use another route to smuggle her out, or just kill her. This way, as long as they think we believe the ship is clean, they'll take her there," Durell said earnestly. "I can find her, if she's aboard. Go along with me on this, Tom. You have every reason to be sore, but play ball just this once."
"You're crazy," Markey said; but his voice was not angry now.
"I'm sorry about Harry."
"He asked for it. Just as you're asking for it."
"Meet me in an hour, Tom."
Markey spoke with a last burst of exasperation. "Man, do you know what it costs? Senator Hubert's flown to Washington, yelling you've thrown everything at sixes and sevens. You came to town and the whole case..."
"One hour, Tom," Durell said.
He put down the phone and swung into action.
Chapter Seventeen
Forty minutes later he was in Manhattan. He called the hotel for Deirdre but she still was not in her room or in the lobby. Then he drove west on Canal and turned north toward Greenwich Village. It was dusk, and the city was a miracle of lights seen through the chill mists. It was almost five o'clock when he parked near Sheridan Square and walked down the little cobbled backwash of a street where the New American Society had its headquarters.
The hooting of tugs came from the river, and traffic on Greenwich Avenue was muted. There were only a few hurrying people on the sidewalks. The air was raw and cold. The street lights came on as Durell passed a parked car where a man sat idly behind the wheel and another man sat smoking a cigarette. There was a shadow in a doorway across from the corner, twenty feet from a small Italian grocery.
Tony Isotti was in the grocery, eating a slab of cheese and a handful of crackers while he talked in Italian to the dark, pretty girl behind the counter. He looked youthful and handsome, with his hat pushed back over his dark curly hair. He looked like a college boy. He said, "Hi," to Durell, whispered something to the girl that made her giggle wildly, and walked to the doorway of the grocery with Durell.
"On the button," Tony said. "You want the gun here?"
Durell nodded and took the short-barreled Colt .32 and put it in his pocket, looking down the street. "Those are Markey's men in the cars?"
"He's waiting in the Olds sedan."
"Come on."
They crossed the cobbled street. A few lights shone in the old-law tenements that flanked the Olds sedan. Markey sat with his pipe clenched between his teeth, beside a dark man in a blue topcoat. The FBI agent's face was grim, set in bulldog fashion. His eyes were not happy as he surveyed Durell and Isotti.