The Letter Writer (27 page)

Gerhard listened to the answer and shook his head. He began digging money out of his pocket—a few crumpled ones, a scatter of coins which clattered to the stone floor.

“He says he can get more if we will take him.”

“No, Gerhard. It is not a matter of money.”

“Information, then. He says he can tell us more. But we must help.”

“Tell him we will try. But only,
only
if he tells us everything he knows.”

Gerhard nodded quickly. He leaned forward. Then he told his last tale while Danziger translated simultaneously. Cain listened carefully and kept taking notes.

“The German businessman,” Danziger said. “The intermediary. Gerhard says that after their last meeting at the Jaegerhaus he followed the man out to the street, and heard him give an address as he got into a taxi. Gerhard then went there himself. Not in a taxi, he couldn't afford it, so he went on the subway. It was an office on Wall Street.”

“A bank?” Cain said. “Some investment house?”

“Please, let him continue!” said Danziger.

Gerhard again took up the thread.

“Not a bank, he says. An older building, a smaller one with only one business inside. He waited maybe half an hour and saw the man come out and hail another cab. He did not hear the address this time, so he went inside. There was a reception desk, with a woman behind it. She asked him what he wanted, and Gerhard asked for an appointment. But his English was not very good, and when he would not give his name or say who he wanted to see, she told him to come back later or to telephone first. So he left, but not before he was able to look at the visitor's ledger, where he saw the man's name. It was Herman Keller.”

“Keller?”

“Yes. First name, Herman.”

It was somehow familiar, yet just out of reach.

“What was the address on Wall Street?”

“He says you do not need the number, because the woman, this receptionist, she gave him a business card so he could telephone later.”

“Does he still have it?”

Gerhard nodded, and reached into his pocket. He looked at them for a few seconds and then handed it to Cain. Black letters on a cream background, with a phone number and a Wall Street address. In the middle, a logo for Willett & Reed.

“Lawyers,” Cain said, his voice hoarse. “Herman Keller was seeing his lawyer.”

Cain now remembered why Keller's name was familiar. It was on one of the arrest reports earmarked for special handling in the 95 Room. Some minor vice charge, like gambling, and now he knew what connection Keller must have used to make sure the charge went away—Harris Euston, his lawyer, the man with all those friends in the 14th precinct. And when the four Germans hired for the sabotage scheme had threatened to become unruly, Keller had probably gone to Euston for help on that, too.

Cain's mouth was dry, and his hands were clammy.

“You know this firm?” Danziger asked.

Cain nodded and looked away. For a moment he was worried he might vomit.

“He says there is one more thing,” Danziger said. “About this man Keller.”

Gerhard spoke again while Danziger translated.

“He says that a fellow who worked at the Jaegerhaus told them that this Keller was known as some sort of money man.”

“Like a banker?” Cain asked. “Is that what he means?”

Danziger relayed the question. Gerhard shook his head.

“No. Not a banker. He says Keller was raising foreign currency for the Fatherland, a scheme asking people in Yorkville to buy Reichsmarks with dollars. With foreign currency, Herr Hitler would still be able to buy goods and supplies on the world market despite the embargoes on commerce in Reichsmarks. Keller was fronting for some American bank, which didn't wish its name to be associated with what was happening. This is apparently why Keller was chosen as their intermediary, because he was known as a good soldier for the cause.”

Chase: that was Cain's guess on the name of the bank. It would be yet another reason Keller used Harris Euston as his lawyer. In fact, maybe Chase was the client who'd introduced the two men.

“I've heard about that scheme, in some of the Yorkville gossip around the station house,” Cain said. “It was back before we got into the war. Groups of thugs, going door to door to make collections. Extorting money from people who still had family in Germany. What else does he know?”

“He says that is all. He says now we must help him.”

Cain shook his head, marveling at the implications, and wondering how deeply Euston was enmeshed, wittingly or not.

“Tell him I need to speak with you in private,” Cain said. “Tell him we must also speak to the father if we are to arrange for his safekeeping.”

Danziger relayed the message.

“He wants our reassurance that we will not leave him.”

“Tell him we'll be right outside. We will send the father for him when it is time. Until then he will be safer staying here.”

Gerhard nodded when Danziger finished.

“Ja. Ich verstehe.”

“He understands.”

Cain followed Danziger back into the sanctuary. There they retreated to an altar off to one side, where a console table was covered with votive candles, and everything smelled of warm wax.

“This Willett & Reed. It is your father-in-law's legal firm, is it not?”

“It is. Harris Euston, and he's an asshole with connections. But I'd never pegged him as a traitor.”

“I doubt Keller would have revealed any word of the sabotage plot to an American.”

“Then why would Keller have gone to see him?”

“Because he was under duress, and Euston was already his lawyer. I suspect their working relationship has more to do with money. The banking scheme, perhaps.”

“As if that makes it any better, raising spending money for Hitler. But, yeah, that's what I'm thinking, too.”

“And if Herman Keller was fronting for a bank, well, money always makes its own allegiances, greater to some than those of country or king, especially if, as you said, it was happening before our country entered the war.”

“But Germany was already in it, and anybody with a brain could see what they were doing.”

“And you think that would taint matters for someone such as your father-in-law? Or for an American bank, even? Both Chase and their middlemen like Keller would stand to make a great deal in commissions from these transactions. Shady or not, this should hardly come as a surprise. Let me tell you of something that happened in this city two summers ago, just after the Wehrmacht marched into Paris. There was a dinner party at the Waldorf-Astoria. The guest of honor was a representative of the German foreign ministry. His hosts were executives for General Motors, Ford, and several oil companies. They shook hands and toasted the dawn of a new age of free trade. This was not a secret. It was in all of the newspapers. Money was their common ideology, not National Socialism. They would never dare to break bread together now, of course, but I doubt they have simply set aside all ambitions for future trade. And are these not the very sorts of people your father-in-law is paid to represent?”

“That's exactly what I intend to find out.”

“How?”

“I'll confront him. Ask him face to face. At least now I know the real reason he had me to lunch. Even then he was asking me to keep him up to speed on the Hansch case.”

“When was this?”

“Right after that story hit the
Daily News.
It was at his club.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Not a damn thing. But he's got his spies. Maloney, Mulhearn. By now he probably knows plenty about where I've been going, what I've been up to. About you, too, maybe.”

“And you've told him nothing? You're sure of that?”

“Positive.” He paused. “Except…”

“Yes?”

“Lutz Lorenz. I mentioned his name. Euston said he had a few helpful contacts in Yorkville, so I bounced Lutz Lorenz's name off him. Claimed he'd never heard of him.”

Danziger shook his head. “Another reason to watch your back. And hers.”

Cain turned and saw Olivia near the front of the sanctuary, talking animatedly with the young priest, who seemed charmed, nodding as she spoke.

“He'd never do anything to hurt his granddaughter.”

“But the Mad Hatter would.”

“You know who that is?”

“You would, too, if you had been reading the papers a few months before your arrival. Albert Anastasia. One of the biggest murderers this side of the Atlantic. They have a name for his little enterprise at that candy store in Brooklyn.”

“I know. Murder, Inc. Even some of those people have friends in the station house. But I thought most of them had been locked up?”

“Most have. The Mad Hatter has even been put on trial. Yet, whenever Albert Anastasia goes on trial, witnesses begin to disappear, or go silent, and inevitably he is freed. At least now we know why Lutz Lorenz would not reveal his name. In his shoes, I would have also remained silent. Lutz would like to survive this war. Mentioning the name of Albert Anastasia would be a sure way of guaranteeing he won't.”

“Especially when he's already taken care of at least three of the men Lorenz hired. Cleaning up the evidence of his plans, I guess.”

“What I don't understand is why he was involved in a sabotage plot.”

“Well he
is
Italian.”

Danziger shook his head. “It is not so easy as that. The Mafiosi despise Mussolini. Il Duce has been merciless in hunting down their brethren in Sicily.”

“Extortion, then?”

“Perhaps. How, then, to explain the involvement of all the others. Not Luciano, or Lansky. But Gurfein? Haffenden? Whatever we do next, we should not act in haste. We need time to plan, to deliberate.”

“You do the thinking. I'll go see Harris Euston.”

“If you must. But you should also consider her welfare.” He nodded toward Olivia.

“I do. Every single day. And, yes, I know I shouldn't have brought her along. So let's get out of here.”

“And what of Gerhard?”

Cain shook his head. “I don't see any possible way of helping him. Not without tipping off all the wrong people about what we're up to.”

“I can only agree. And there is no escaping that he is a filthy Nazi who would gladly send me to the grave. Yet I cannot help but pity him. But as you say, it is not possible.”

They walked over to Olivia. Cain thanked the father for his help.

“Has our guest departed?” the priest asked.

Cain and Danziger exchanged glances.

“He remains in the sacristy,” Danziger said. “At the moment he is somewhat upset. It would probably be best to give him a few more moments alone. In the meantime, would it be all right if we were to exit that way?” He pointed toward a door off to the side at the front of the church. “Some rather dubious-looking people harassed the girl on our way in, and we'd prefer to exit by a different route.”

Danziger winked at Olivia, who held her tongue.

“Of course,” the father answered. “I will show you out.”

Back on the street they walked two blocks in silence before pausing to make sure that Gerhard wasn't in pursuit.

“Neatly done,” Cain said.

“I suppose we should not be so proud of our deceit,” Danziger said.

“Were you able to help that man?” Olivia asked. Cain looked to Danziger.

“We did what we could,” the older man said. “We did what we could.”

“What's he afraid of?” she asked.

Danziger knelt so that they were eye to eye.

“The world, young lady. A world of his own making, I am sorry to say. I believe he described his situation best when he spoke the words of your holy book. ‘The wolf shall dwell with the lamb.' For a while, he was the wolf. Now, at least in his own mind, he is the lamb.”

“Which one are we?”

“A very sharp question, my dear. The kind that only a father should answer.”

Danziger stood, nodded a farewell, and turned to go. They watched until he rounded the corner. Olivia was still awaiting an answer. Cain hadn't yet decided what to say, but he knew one thing for sure. He certainly didn't feel like the wolf.

NOW IT WAS HARRIS EUSTON
who wouldn't return a phone call.

On Sunday, Cain left three messages with the doorman at Euston's apartment building on the Upper East Side. By nine thirty Monday morning he had already tried the number at Willett & Reed five times. Each time he got a polite but curt assurance from a secretary that Mr. Euston would call back at his earliest convenience.

He had no better luck in reaching Herman Keller, whose phone had been disconnected, and whose office on 86th Street was locked and seemingly deserted. Presumably the man had gone into hiding. Maybe he, too, was now fearing Anastasia's wrath. Briefly he considered phoning Chase National Bank, just to rattle a few cages, but he had no idea who to ask for or even what questions to ask, and decided that at this point it would create more trouble than it was worth.

Between phone calls, Cain handled more busywork for Mulhearn. When no one else was listening he managed to squeeze in a request to the Bureau of Criminal Identification for their files on Albert Anastasia. A clerk promised they'd be delivered to the station house by noon the following day, meaning that by then everyone in the 14th precinct would know about it.

On his final attempt to reach Euston, shortly after five p.m., Cain told the secretary, “Tell him that if he doesn't answer then I'll be calling on him at home tonight. You'll tell him that, won't you?”

“Certainly, sir. But I do know that Mr. Euston has plans for this evening, an important charity event, so he may not be available until quite late. Perhaps it would be better if you phoned here tomorrow morning. I'm sure he'll respond at his earliest convenience.”

“I'm sure he will. Maybe even before the end of the war.”

Cain slammed the receiver down. Important event, my ass, he thought. But it gave him an idea.

All sorts of local socialites seemed to be holding charity fundraisers associated with the war effort, and in recent weeks he'd seen notices of them several times a week in the society pages of the newspapers. A few times he'd spotted Willett & Reed among the sponsors.

He retrieved Mulhearn's copy of the Sunday
New York Times,
and within ten minutes he found what he was looking for in a short article headlined “Fete to Aid Children's Fund.” Euston's law firm was listed among the organizers for the black-tie event, which would be held at the Park Avenue home of a Mrs. Gordon Eglinton Stewart, to raise money to help feed and clothe British children orphaned by German bombing raids. There was even a minor celebrity scheduled to appear, the story said, noting, “At the event, Lady Ashfield will tell of her work in the evacuation of British children.”

Jolly good, Cain thought, wondering how Lady Ashfield would react if she knew that one of her American sponsors was up to his neck in legal dealings with a sponsor of Nazi saboteurs. Probably not with a stiff upper lip.

In hopes of achieving maximum impact upon arrival, Cain waited until an hour after the event had begun before he showed up at the apartment building, where a doorman attired as grandly as a nineteenth-century general waved him into a lobby with a marble floor, a chandelier, and pink marble columns. Off to the side, a string quartet played a Bach concerto. A large desk stood between the entrance and the elevators. Manning it was another garishly clad satrap holding a clipboard.

“I'm here for Mrs. Gordon Eglinton Stewart's soiree,” Cain said, relishing every syllable.

“Your name, please?”

“Woodrow Cain.”

The man checked the sheet on his clipboard, scanning it twice and then nodding as if confirming what he'd suspected all along.

“I'm sorry, sir, but you're not on the guest list. And were you aware that the event was black-tie?”

“I don't care if it's buck naked. Just tell me the floor.”

“Sir, you're
not invited.
If I have to, I'll telephone the police.”

Cain took out his shield. “They've just arrived. Tell me the floor, please, unless you'd prefer I called in a few uniforms. We can always go floor by floor until we find the place.”

“Twenty-two,” the man said, going a little pale. “But, sir, you do realize this is a
charity
event?”

“I'll make sure to drop a dime in the plate on the way out.”

Mrs. Gordon Eglinton Stewart, or perhaps her husband, must have been filthy rich. They owned the entire twenty-second floor. The elevator opened onto a small alcove with a rather grand-looking door dead ahead. Cain could already hear conversation, laughter, and the clinking of glasses.

He knocked. It opened instantly. Inside he was greeted by some sort of valet who was taking coats. The man looked askance at Cain's rumpled suit, and seemed on the verge of commenting when Cain again flashed his shield and said, “Don't mind me. This shouldn't take more than a few minutes.”

Cain drew a few stares as he crossed the room, but hardly noticed as he surveyed the opulence of his surroundings, not to mention the spectacular view of the city through the huge windows along the front. Further doorways opened to either side—the one to the left onto a dining room and then, beyond it, some sort of parlor. To the right was a library. There must have been close to a hundred people here, scattered through the apartment. The women were dressed grandly, most of them in white or black evening gowns. Every man except him was in black tie. He had thought earlier that his workaday suit would make him feel empowered, or perhaps boldly revolutionary among the privileged. He realized now that he only felt belittled and all too noticeable. The moment of swagger he'd experienced while lording it over the deskman was gone. He wished Beryl were here. He was betting she wouldn't be at all intimidated by this setup, and at the very least she'd be able to buck him up for the task ahead.

With that in mind he straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and quickly scanned the room for Euston, hoping to find him before anyone else asked him to leave. There he was, in the dining room.

Cain set out toward a long table brimming with appetizing food. An attendant stood ready to carve slices from a rib roast, and there were silver platters of orange and black caviar. He doubted any children of Britain would be eating as well tonight as the esteemed Lady Ashfield, whom he now saw on the far side of the room, standing out from the others with a regal bearing and a very proper accent.

Euston looked up just as Cain was approaching. Surprise registered in his eyes, but only for an instant. He spoke before Cain could open his mouth.

“Well, aren't you the fish out of water, Woodrow. Let me guess. You forgot your invitation.”

“Actually I've got one right here.” Cain again flashed his shield.

Euston moved up in his face. “Ah, the all-purpose pass for steerage. If you're on police business then we'd better take this outside.” He sneered as he spoke, as if they were standing in a school hallway and preparing to mix it up. Maybe they were.

Cain barely resisted the urge to bump Euston's chest. But he didn't back down, not even when Euston dug his fingers into Cain's left forearm and attempted to steer him toward the door.

“Indoors works just fine for me, Euston. In fact, I'd like a drink first, and I'm going to let you get it for me. Unless you'd like me to tell the good Lady Ashfield all about your recent adventures with your friends up in Yorkville?”

Euston released his grip and, glowering, went straight to the bar in the sitting room, where a stout black man in a white dinner jacket presided over a full range of offerings. Euston turned with an inquiring glance. Cain mouthed the word “Bourbon.”

The host, like the Union League Club, hadn't scrimped on supplies. It was the best bourbon Kentucky had to offer, and it came in a glass of beveled crystal. Cain liked the way the first swallow smoldered as it settled into his belly. Euston, who'd been holding a drink earlier, was now empty-handed.

“What about you?” Cain asked. “Where's your invitation?”

“Mrs. Stewart is a longtime client. She's second cousin to a Vanderbilt, once removed.”

“Does that even count?”

“Come on, let's go.” Euston again took Cain's arm, more gently this time. “Let's do this with a little dignity, at least.”

Cain relented, if only because people had begun to stare. They went back out into the small alcove, where Euston shut the door behind them.

“Tell me about your client over in Yorkville,” Cain said, “the one who moves in the same circles as Lutz Lorenz. You remember Lorenz, don't you? That guy whose name didn't ring a bell at lunch the other day?”

“We have lots of clients in all parts of this city, Woodrow, so I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“The one who likes hanging out in beer halls with Bundists. Does that help?”

“You're foaming at the mouth, Woodrow. So I happen to represent a few German-Americans. I represent Italian-Americans as well. Do you know that the authorities even arrested Joe DiMaggio's father the other day, for pity's sake? And does anyone truly believe
he's
a threat to our country? Yet now I suppose you intend to tar and feather me, or perhaps the good name of Willett & Reed, simply because some of our clients happen to be of German heritage? Is that your game?”

“Okay, you had your chance. Herman Keller. Does that one ring a bell?”

Euston flinched. Now he looked like he wished he'd brought his drink. He lowered his head and spoke into his chest. “Mr. Keller is no longer a client.”

“Was that still the case when you were fixing his gambling charge with the boys in the 95 Room last month? What's the going rate for that, by the way? And I'm guessing you already knew Keller's connection to Werner Hansch, that fellow we fished out of the Hudson. That's why you were so eager for updates on the case when we lunched at your club. Lorenz was in on their arrangement, too, although I gather he's in some sort of protective custody now. Am I beginning to refresh your memory?”

But by then Euston had recovered from the initial shock and had begun to collect himself. He straightened and came right back at Cain, raising his voice.

“As you no doubt are aware, Woodrow, anything that previously took place between Mr. Keller and me is strictly protected, even and
especially
from the likes of you, by the sanctity of attorney-client privilege. So don't even try.”

“Which of your big banking clients are you protecting with this bullshit, Euston? Chase? That's my guess. They were using Keller to front this Reichsmarks-to-dollars thing, weren't they? Hitler needed an international bankroll, and they were happy to help him collect it, as long as they got to make a killing on the commissions.”

Euston went red in the face. “All right, then,” he said. “If attorney-client privilege doesn't do the trick, how about a few personal considerations? With only the slightest exertion, Woodrow, I could break you in this town. Break you right back to Horton, where nobody will ever trust you again. Break you so badly that you'd even lose that fine daughter of yours.”

“And who'd take care of her then, you?”

“What makes you think I haven't already made arrangements? What makes you think you'll retain custody even if you manage to hang on here by your fingernails?”

Cain backed him against the wall. “You know what really breaks a man these days, Euston? Striking it rich by cutting deals with the enemy, and then having the news spread all over town. The way I see it, you and your clients are up to your eyeballs with a bunch of kraut saboteurs. So you want to break me? Try it. And if you like the
Daily News
so much, maybe you'll enjoy landing on their front page. One of those big screamer headlines.
Hitler's Park Avenue Lawyer.
I bet that would sell a ton of papers, even in this building, don't you think?”

Euston seemed on the verge of throwing a punch when the door opened and a middle-aged man stepped into the hallway.

“Harris? I heard shouting, is everything all right?”

Cain flashed his shield and stepped briskly toward him. “Get the hell back inside until I'm through here. This man's a disgrace to you and me and everybody in that room.”

The man blanched as white as his starched shirt, and he quickly retreated before shutting the door behind him.

“You'll pay for that as well, Woodrow.”

“Good. Maybe I'll send the bill to Lady Ashfield. Go ahead. Start slinging mud right now, if you want, and we'll see whose name comes out dirtiest. But let me tell you one more thing that ought to sober you up. If shame doesn't move you, fine, I can work with that. How about fear?”

“You're threatening me?”

“Not me. Wouldn't dream of it. But how about the guy who seems to be single-handedly trying to clean up the mess that your client and his friends have made? Albert Anastasia. The Mad Hatter. Kills whoever he wants, and if he ever got word that you're part of the mess, then I wouldn't like your chances for tea with Lady Ashfield anytime soon.”

Euston opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. He backed up a step, looking like someone had knocked the wind out of him, and his next words emerged in a hoarse whisper.

“Now be reasonable, Woodrow.” He again took hold of Cain's arm, but this time in the manner of a supplicant, seeking mercy. “Whatever you think of me, I'm family. Right now I'm a big part of what's supporting you and Olivia, and I'm all that Clovis has left. Love her or hate her, she's still the mother of your child.”

“Then give me something. If you want me to keep your name out of it, fine. Cover your ass to hell and back, and Chase Bank's, too. But where is Keller? Where is he hiding? Where has he gone?”

Euston exhaled loudly and lowered his head. “Jersey. Across the river.”

Cain got out his notebook, wedging it beneath his glass of bourbon.