The Hour of the Cat (42 page)

“Be quite a scoop if what Terry said is true,” Taylor said. “But who framed him and why? Did Terry say?”

“Matt Terry never said any such thing.” Brannigan rested the cigar on the edge of the bar, spread his feet apart, and brushed his chin with the side of his hand.

“Sure he did. Still at Sally's, blubbering his head off. Don't believe me, come on, we'll go over right now.”

Brannigan eyed the floor as if he'd dropped something. Dunne recognized the feint: same slouch of the shoulders and swivel of the head Brannigan used to deceive scores of suspects, guilty and innocent alike. For an instant, they were sure he was ready to walk away, satisfied or at least not displeased with whatever answers they'd given, utterly off-guard for the hammer blow that would send them across the room.

Dunne's hard, well aimed punch preempted Brannigan, smashing into the bridge of his nose and knocking him backward into Taylor, who lost his balance and tumbled to the floor. Dunne popped in close to Brannigan and hit him again, squarely on his jaw. The immediate and ferocious pain that shot up his arm telegraphed to Dunne that, whatever damage he'd done to Brannigan, he'd also broken his right hand.

“Hold it, Dunne!” Tommy Hines reached for his revolver, but before he could unholster it, Red Doyle pinned his arms behind his back.

“Don't anyone interfere,” Brannigan used his sleeve to wipe the blood flowing from his nose. “Now it's my turn.”

The sharp pain in Dunne's hand became a paralyzing ache. He tried to reach into his belt and grasp the gun he'd taken from Terry, but his fingers wouldn't close. Brannigan charged at him. With his left hand, Dunne hooked the handle of the pitcher of beer on the bar and, taking a wide swing, delivered it into Branngian's face.

Brannigan reeled back on his heels, tripped over Taylor, who was crawling on hands and knees to get out of the way, and crashed into the table where they'd been playing cards. It collapsed under his weight, scattering cards, drinks, and winnings across the floor.

Dunne took a second pitcher of beer and poured it over a prone and unconscious Brannigan. “Here, Chief,” he said, “I owe you a dousing.” He used his left hand to pick up the bills from Brannigan's winnings and stuff them in his pocket. He got Terry's pistol from his belt and dropped it on Brannigan's stomach. Brannigan moaned but didn't open his eyes. Dunne removed the cigar from the bar and stuck it in Brannigan's mouth. “Now we're even, Chief. Almost.”

Taylor huddled in a corner with Joe O'Brien and the others. “You want a scoop, better come now,” Dunne said.

Rid of Doyle's grip, Hines went to aid Brannigan. “You won't get away with this!”

“We'll see who gets away with what, Tommy.”

Outside, Doyle went into a crouch and threw a battery of shadow punches. “Nice sock to the nose,” he said, “but you missed a perfect chance with the left.” An unmarked sedan pulled up. Lundgren hopped out of the passenger's side. “Where you think you're going, Dunne?” he said.

“Brannigan's inside. All primed to spill his guts. Meantime, I'm helping Taylor here with a story.”

“Better not be pulling my chain.”

Taylor hailed a cab. “
Au revoir
,” Dunne said. He gave the cabby the address of Sally Hoffritz's place, and they sped away.

Although he betrayed no sign of it, Canaris was nonplussed by the sight of General Beck in civilian clothes. The usually well tailored soldier, who always looked trim and smart in uniform, wore a gray suit and white shirt, buttoned to the collar and no tie. He seemed to have shrunk and grown older in the few days since Canaris had last seen him.

Beck picked at the veal stew. He put down his fork and took a drink of water. “I had to resign,” he said. “If I wanted to preserve even one shred of self-respect, I could not do otherwise.”

The waiter returned to the private room that Canaris had reserved in his favorite Hungarian restaurant, a block from military headquarters. He and Beck said nothing while the waiter filled their glasses with Tokay. “That will be all,” Canaris said.

“The Führer is determined to attack the Czechs, sometime between September 21 and October 1.” Beck stared at his food. “It was my hope that when others saw the Chief of the General Staff had resigned to protest against such unwarranted aggression, they would follow.”

“Your decision is widely admired.”

“But not imitated.”

“Soldiers are soldiers. Obedience is in our blood.”

“There comes a time when even a soldier must think with his brain and not just listen to his blood.”

Canaris pushed away his plate. Neither he nor Beck had done more than nibble at their food. He had hoped that dinner with Beck might lift his spirits, as his intellect and straightforward conversation usually did. Instead, Canaris felt himself further deflated by Beck's forlorn appearance.

“Oster is furious with me, I suppose,” Beck said.

“He was, well, surprised that you allowed the reason for your resignation to be kept private.”

“I sat in the same seat as great soldiers such as Moltke and Schlieffen. I couldn't cooperate with a band of criminals determined to set loose a war, but neither could I act in the fashion of a prima donna, turning an act of conscience into a public spectacle.”

Using the small silver bell by his plate, Canaris signaled for the waiter, instructing him to take away their dishes and bring a check.

“You weren't pleased with the food?” the waiter asked.

“I haven't much of an appetite today, that's all.” Canaris lit a cigarette. The intemperate monologue he'd endured from Oster that afternoon had put him in a black mood. He told Oster to lower his voice. Oster ignored him, railing against Beck's decision to go quietly and allow the Führer to credit the resignation of his Chief of Staff to “ill health.”

Beck folded his hands and bowed his head, as though ready to pray grace after meals. “Have you heard anything from England?”

“Nothing very encouraging, I'm afraid. The attitude of the Foreign Office seems to be that any disagreements within the regime are internal squabbles of no consequence to His Majesty's government. Their overriding desire is to reach some accommodation that will avoid another war.” Canaris turned his head to exhale the smoke away from Beck, who made no secret of his dislike for cigarettes. The door to the room was half-opened. Outside, the waiter was writing in his order book, totaling up the bill, perhaps.

“Franz Halder came and spoke with me as soon as the Führer named him successor as Chief of Staff. He's a good soldier. He, too, is afraid of another war. He thinks that, as a new voice, he might be able to reason with the Führer.”

“He'll learn quickly.” Canaris caught the waiter's attention and signaled for the check.

The waiter approached with the check in both hands, as if he were about to read from it. “Pardon me, if this appears rude, but you are General Beck, are you not?”

Beck nodded. His mouth was slightly ajar.

“I was sure it was you. Admiral Canaris I have seen here many times, but I recognize you from your picture in the newspaper.” He smiled and put down the check.

Canaris examined it, pretending to make sure the addition was correct. He tried to reassure himself that the sensitive parts of his conversation with Beck had been out of the waiter's earshot. “That will be all.” He signed the check and handed it back.

“Yes, Herr Admiral.” The waiter stuck the check in his order book but made no motion to leave. “I hope this doesn't seem too forward or out of line, but I know that you gentlemen were talking about the situation with the Czechs.”

Beck's mouth opened wider. He seemed about to speak but no sound came out.

“Well, you should know that among us Magyars there is a growing cadre determined to replicate the success of the Third Reich in our homeland. We are ready to stand with Germany against the Czechs, the British, and all the willing dupes of Jewish-run Bolshevist subversion and degeneracy.”

Canaris and Beck rose simultaneously. Beck walked to the door without saying anything. “Your expression of support is appreciated,” Canaris said.

“A new order is coming to Europe,” the waiter said, as Canaris followed Beck out of the room. “Those who aren't for it are against it, and those against it are doomed!”

 

 

Gresser informed Canaris as soon as he arrived at his office that Lieutenant Colonel Piekenbrock had requested to see him. Following a cup of coffee and a glance through the morning paper, Canaris had Gresser summon Piekenbrock. When he arrived, Canaris sent Gresser on an errand and shut the door.

Canaris poured himself another cup. “Would you care for some?”

“No, thank you, and I apologize for the delay,” Piekenbrock said.

“What delay?” Canaris motioned for him to sit.

“The information on the SS agent in New York you requested.” Piekenbrock undid a button on his tunic and took from the inner breast pocket a thin sheath of papers. He unfolded it on the desk and smoothed the sheets with several strokes of his palm.

“Of course, yes. I'm afraid I've been distracted.”

Piekenbrock rebuttoned the tunic. “I went about my inquiries ‘discreetly,' as you instructed. It took longer than I'd hoped, but I believe I avoided raising any suspicions, at least above what is normal. Mostly, it required drinking with my SS counterparts and listening to them brag, which takes only a modicum of encouragement. That, and the occasional bribe.”

“Wait a moment while I ask Oster to come in. He brought this to my attention.”

Oster came immediately. He spread out on the couch, arms across the tops of the leather cushions.

“Forgive any sloppiness or errors. I was allowed to look at Hausser's SS dossier but not retain it.”

“Hausser?” Canaris said.

Springing from the couch, Oster reached over and took the papers Piekenbrock had placed on the desk. “Yes, if you recall our conversation of several weeks ago, that's the agent's name.” After a quick examination, he abruptly handed them to Canaris, ignoring the latter's visible irritation at their interception.

Canaris put on his glasses. The handwriting was small, cramped, difficult to read. He gave the papers back to Piekenbrock. “What's the gist?”

“The SS wants to take over the Abwehr.” The scorn in Oster's voice was undisguised. He lifted the lighter from the desk, thumbed the flint, and leaned the cigarette in his mouth into the flame. “That's become the gist of about everything around here.”

Although annoyed at Oster's obtrusion and impertinence, Canaris acted as if unaffected. “In outline, what have you discovered?”

“Gregor Hausser is an American,” Piekenbrock said. “At least he was born there, in the city of Hoboken, in 1901. His parents were East Prussians, from Königsberg. His father, a chemist, brought the family back to Germany shortly after the outbreak of the war and served with distinction on the Western Front. He was killed at the Somme in 1917. Hausser left school in 1918, at the war's end, and joined a Freikorps unit in Berlin. He settled there, working as a butcher's apprentice, until 1925, when he returned to America. There, he worked in a meat-packing plant in Chicago, until 1929, when he lost his job and returned once more to Germany.”

Oster went back to the couch. “The fellow's a regular gypsy.”

Fumbling for a moment, Piekenbrock marked the place he was looking for with his forefinger. “Here's the gist, I suppose: he joined the Nazi Party in 1930; the SS in '31. He assisted in the purge of Röhm and the SA in 1934 and was assigned as an aide to Eicke, at Dachau. On Eicke's recommendation, Hausser was sent to the SS Officers Academy at Bad Tolz and was subsequently appointed to its training staff.”

“The American background explains why he was judged suitable for a mission to the United States,” Canaris said. “But what's the purpose of the mission?”

“There was no hint in his file, but there are facts I discovered not in the official documents. You should know that these cost me—or, more accurately, the Abwehr—a case of fine cognac and a pair of the best English riding boots.”

“That's all?” Oster pretended to be disappointed. “If it were worth anything to those bloodsuckers in the SS, they'd have charged you a hundred times that.”

“Let's find out what it is before we worry whether we underpaid.” Canaris no longer felt peeved at Oster's behavior. He knew it was rooted in frustration with the manner of General Beck's resignation and the wobbling resolve to mount a coup if and when war broke out. He merely wished for his sake and everyone else's that Oster would try to do a better job of hiding it.

“Hausser has a police record,” Piekenbrock again shuffled the papers until he'd pinpointed a paragraph with his finger. He read aloud: “Arrested in Munich, in 1934, for the near fatal beating of a prostitute. Charges quashed by order of the State Minister of Police. Repeat arrests in 1935 and '36, same charges, same outcomes. Detained in the stabbing, strangulation death of a prostitute in Berlin, June 1937. Further prosecution of the case was stopped by order of Reinhard Heydrich, Chief of the Security Services.”

“Even by SS standards, an odd choice for a secret agent, wouldn't you say?” Oster lit a new cigarette with the burned-down remnant of the old.

“There's more. When Hausser served with the Death's Head Unit at Dachau, he earned the nickname ‘The King of Spades' for on-the-spot executions of prisoners in his work detail with a sharpened shovel. They were recorded as ‘accidental deaths.' It's all here.” Piekenbrock handed the sheet he'd been reading from to Canaris.