The Letter Writer (8 page)

“Okay.”

He set aside the first page.

“This letter was from a week later, the twenty-eighth of January. Two pages. As you will see, he began to open up. I will read from the most pertinent paragraph, translating as I go:

“ ‘I have fresh tidings on the job front. I will soon be making a good sum of money in a new employment. It is manual labor, but I am to be paid a great amount above the standard wage, thanks to fortunate circumstances in which my skills and commitment have been noticed by people of high standing. It will be a boost for our family and for our Fatherland. With luck I may soon even have the means and wherewithal to return home.”

“People of high standing,” Cain said, repeating the phrase. “Interesting.”

“I thought so as well. Then I immediately put it from my mind. It is not always a good thing to know so much about such people.”

Cain thought it was a curious statement, but nodded for Danziger to continue.

“Four days later he wrote to cousins in Switzerland and sent them money, along with instructions on how to forward the amount to his wife. He was too afraid that any envelope addressed to Germany might be searched.”

“How much did he send?”

“Three hundred dollars, all of it in twenty-dollar bills.”

“
Wow.
That's five months' rent.”

“In my neighborhood, fifteen. For Hansch, who knows? In the same letter he promised that he would soon be sending more.”

“Did he say where he was living?”

“He gave no address. But from other things he said I gathered it was a flophouse, probably not so far from here.”

“How would a guy like that come up with three hundred bucks? Dirty work for the Bundists? Distributing propaganda? Spying, even?”

Danziger frowned. “I suspect whatever it was came under the auspices of a more legitimate occupation. Probably a trade union position, based on his earlier reference to wage standards.”

“Like in a factory, maybe. Something to do with the war effort. He could've been hired to gather information, or for sabotage.”

“It could be many things, at many locations. Factories for aircraft, munitions, or almost anything on the waterfront. But, as I said, it is likely to have involved a union occupation. I base this partly as well on a connection he mentioned, the man who had assisted him in finding work.”

“He mentioned the name?”

“A forename only. Lutz. From somewhere in Yorkville.”

The name jogged a memory which Cain was unable to pin down, or at least not before Danziger continued.

“If it is the Lutz of Yorkville with which I am familiar—a man of considerable influence, or even ‘high standing,' if you will—then we might be able to quickly narrow his employment possibilities.”

“You know this Lutz character?”

“Please. We must proceed in the proper order. He wrote one more letter.”

“Okay.”

“It was a longer time in coming, nearly two months. By then I had concluded that I had seen the last of Herr Hansch. Then he again knocked at my door, very late on the last night in March, a Tuesday. I was in my nightshirt, and had damped the coals for the night. The house was very cold, but he demanded entry. He wanted to write to his wife, then and there, without delay. He was so angry and agitated that it took a while for him to organize his thoughts into coherent form, and even then he did not have so much to say, although his message was somewhat alarming to me.”

“How so?”

“Here, I will read it.”

Danziger took the final page of onionskin and held it to the light.

“ ‘The hand of fortune has turned against me. The job I was to do was given to others, or perhaps even to fate.' ”

“To fate?”

“Yes.”

“Strange wording.”

“I thought so as well. I asked him to elaborate. I told him that such vagueness might cause his wife to worry, but he would not be more specific. When I pressed him further, he lashed out, accusing me of working for ‘one of them,' as he put it.”

“Them?”

Danziger nodded.

“The letter closed with this: ‘The present uneasiness of my status has put me on an undesirable footing with my employer, so I may be moving soon. Do not be frightened if you do not hear from me for a while.' ”

Danziger put down the page.

“One week later I read the story in the
Daily News
with your name in it. I considered contacting you then, but was too uncertain. Maybe it was some other German laborer, with some other Sabine.”

“You said earlier you knew about the tattoo.”

“He had mentioned it in one of our conversations before his second letter. He made a boast of it, talking about a girl he had here that his wife would never know about. I think he thought it would raise his stature in my eyes. As if he cared at all what a Jew would think. It was my education that impressed him. A man of letters, he called me.”

“What finally made you sure the body was Hansch?”

“Two days later, last Thursday, Klaus Schaller came calling. He demanded all copies of Herr Hansch's letters. I refused, of course. I told him they were the private property of Herr Hansch, and protected by United States federal law.”

“Even the copies?”

“No. But he did not know this. So he offered to bribe me. Five dollars, then ten, while never once mentioning that anything had happened to Herr Hansch. I told him it was quite impossible unless he could show me some sort of authorization from Herr Hansch. He brightened somewhat at this prospect, and told me he would acquire proof of authorization the following day. Proof that would be provided by their mutual contact, this man Lutz.”

Now Cain remembered where he'd heard the name. Angela Feinman. Someone named Lutz had fixed her brother's ownership papers.

“I told him to return when he had acquired this proof, but he insisted that we meet at another location. He said it would not be safe for him to come to my house a second time. He offered double the money if I would come to Yorkville. Twenty dollars. We agreed to meet at an empty apartment two blocks from here, at the address you saw in the report. A tenement much like this one. When I arrived at the appointed hour, with these letters in hand, the place was in an uproar. Children and policemen coming and going. Neighbors on their doorsteps, gossiping in a frenzy. I should have simply left, but I had to know. So I elbowed my way upstairs through the crowds and came to an open doorway. In the room I saw three policemen and some sort of doctor, who was kneeling by a body stretched on the floor, with its mouth open. From the eyes I saw that it was Herr Schaller. There was blood, quite a lot of it. It was readily apparent that he was dead. So there you are. That was last Friday night. And on the next Monday morning, promptly at six, I arrived at the station house of the fourteenth precinct, to wait for you.”

“And you think both men died because of something in these letters.”

“Yes.”

“And now you think there will be others. Why?”

“Herr Hansch mentioned that all three of his friends had found work together. And if he and one of his friends are already dead, well…?”

Cain nodded. Logical enough, he supposed.

“Did he mention their names?”

“Forenames only. Dieter and Gerhard.”

“I'm guessing those names are pretty common among Germans.”

“But if those forenames are logged in any trade union registry for the last several months, in close proximity with the names for Hansch and Schaller, then, well…”

“Good idea. Tell me more about Lutz. The girl at the theater on 96th mentioned a Lutz. Said he'd fixed her brother's ownership papers to make it look like a gentile was in charge.”

Danziger nodded knowingly.

“That sounds like something he would arrange. Lutz Lorenz is his full name. A man of valuable connections.”

“You know him?”

“Mostly I know
of
him. I knew his father, a man of similar skills who is now deceased. Many people know about men like Lutz. And when it is your business to gather information on your clients' behalf—knowing who to influence, for this matter or for that one—then you inevitably cross their paths.”

“Have you met him?”

Danziger paused, then nodded. “Long ago. In a different time.”

“Would he remember you?”

“He was a only a boy. But, well…”

“What?”

“I suspect that Lutz Lorenz was the person who referred Werner Hansch to me. So he certainly remembers my name.”

“Which means you might not be safe, depending on how many other people know it.”

“That has occurred to me. But people such as Lutz Lorenz operate with discretion. He is not likely to have kept records of any of his dealings with Hansch and Schaller.”

“Which would be good for you, but maybe bad for what we need to find out. Unless we happen to catch him in a talkative mood.”

“My sentiments exactly. Shall we go, then, to his place of business?”

“Lead the way.”

They went back into the hallway, where Lederer was waiting impatiently, arms folded. He still seemed upset that Danziger had brought an outsider into his home, and he briskly ushered them out of the apartment without saying goodbye.

THEY WALKED SOUTH TO 74TH
beneath the gloom of the overhead railway as trains clattered above. The sidewalks were crowded, but they made good time.

Lutz Lorenz was proprietor of the German-American All Trades Employment Agency, which, as Danziger explained, gave him influence as a broker of well-paying jobs. It also connected him to the city's powerful unions, which in turn were tied to racketeers and crime bosses—a network that went well beyond the so-called Mafia and extended into the realms of Irish gangs, Jewish gangs, Slavic gangs, and the rival gangs of Chinatown. Interwoven through them all were the remnants of the once-mighty Tammany political machine.

“So he's got a lot of pull,” Cain said. “Great. But won't his office be closed this time of night?”

“He lives upstairs, with his family.”

Cain was expecting humble digs. Instead it was a five-story building, the block's newest and most prosperous-looking address. The organization's name was stenciled in gold leaf in English and German across a plate-glass storefront, but the door was padlocked. Someone had taped up a red-and-white placard that said
CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
. There was no further explanation.

“Most disturbing,” Danziger said. He backed away from the building and craned his neck toward the upper floors. “The apartments are dark as well.”

“He owns
all
of this?”

“He lives with his wife and children on the third and fourth floors. His mother lives on the fifth.”

“How do you know this?”

“As I said, it is in the interest of my clients for me to know such things. Come. There is one other place to check. Quickly.” Danziger was already on the move down 74th. “His assistant lives in the next block.”

They reached another newer building, where Danziger pressed a buzzer by an unmarked glass door. A light went on two stories up. Footsteps pounded down the stairwell. A man in a silken robe, hair in disarray, appeared on the other side of the door, peering outward. When he saw Danziger he nodded in recognition and selected a key from a jangly ring of at least a dozen before throwing open the door.

“Reinhard!” Danziger said. “What has become of Herr Lorenz?”

Reinhard shook his head, and looked up and down the street.

“Not out here.” He motioned them inside.

They stepped into the corridor, which was lit only by the streetlamp out front. Reinhard's words echoed up an empty stairwell.

“They came for him.”

“Who did, Reinhard? When?”

“Five men, last night. He phoned me as it was beginning. I saw only the end. But there were five.”

Cain got out his notebook. Reinhard noticed, and asked Danziger something in German. The two of them argued for a few seconds in lowered voices, Cain not understanding a word. Reinhard resumed in a more subdued tone.

“It was over very fast,” he said.

“Over how?” Cain asked. “They killed him?”

“No, no. Took him. Took all of them.”

“Everyone?”

“Lorenz and his family. There were two cars. Big Fords by the curb. They put his wife, his children, even his mother, into the first one and drove away. Then they put Lorenz in the other and headed in the other direction, toward the river.”

“But why all of them, Reinhard?” Danziger asked.

“These men,” Cain interrupted. “Were they armed?”

“Of course! Not the important one, the one who did the talking. But the others, yes. It was all very businesslike.”

“Businesslike?”

“Very organized. Professional. No shouting, no shooting.”

“Do you know who they were?”

Reinhard shook his head.

“But I think Lorenz must have. He saw me, just before they put him in the car, and all that he did was nod. He did not cry out, did not ask me to call anyone, or do anything. It was enough, I think, that I was able to witness his departure.”

“Did you take any tag numbers from the cars?”

Reinhard sighed loudly and lowered his head.

“I did not. I realized later that I should have done this. But I was called from my bed. I was still half asleep. I…Well, I suppose that I failed. Because I have not yet heard from him, or from any lawyer, and I have not been able to enter the building. They put that lock there, the sign as well, and told me to stay out.”

“Were they policemen, maybe?”

“No, no. I would have known. I also do not think they were, well…any of his
business associates.
From the unions or from any of those other groups.” He looked at Danziger, who nodded, as if understanding exactly what Reinhard meant by “those other groups.”

“If any of those people had wanted him, well, you can guess for yourself. They would have handled things…far differently.”

Violently, he meant. Or at least that was Cain's interpretation.

“Describe him,” Danziger said. “The important fellow, the one who was running the show. Did anyone speak his name?”

“No. But he was fat. Or not so much fat. More like…”

“Stocky?” Cain offered.

“Stocky, yes. And his eyes, they were…” He paused, then said something in German.

“Hooded,” Danziger said to Cain. “He had hooded eyes.”

“And a mustache,” Reinhard said. “Kleine. A small one.”

“Like Herr Hitler's?” Danziger offered.

“No, no!” Reinhard seemed offended. “Not small in that way.”

“Thin?” Cain asked.

“Yes. Thin. And he was
Jude.
A Jew. I am sure of this. So,
not
like Herr Hitler.”

“Stocky Jew,” Cain repeated as he wrote in his notebook, “with hooded eyes and a pencil-thin mustache. And he was the guy in charge.”

Danziger remained silent, as if lost in thought.

“Sound like anyone you know?” Cain asked.

Danziger shook his head.

“Okay. Then I guess for now we've got a dead end. On Lorenz, anyway.”

“Yes,” Danziger said darkly. “Dead end, as you say.”

Reinhard ushered them outside and locked up. They caught a downtown subway. Cain slumped exhausted on the bench. He still stank of beer and sweat and sawdust. Danziger remained silent most of the way. He looked worried.

“What are you thinking?” Cain asked.

“Lutz Lorenz. If he had been shot or snatched by thugs, yes, that would be alarming. But this? It does not follow any of the usual patterns.”

“And what patterns are those?”

Danziger shrugged. He looked as if he were already regretting the statement.

“You seem to know a lot about the way these kinds of abductions work.”

Danziger shrugged again. “I have read about them in the papers.”

“Sure. From the papers. Something's bothering you.”

“Yes. Discreet or not, Lutz may have talked, especially if they threatened his family. And if he spoke freely about his recent connections, well…Surely you see the problem?”

“I could arrange for some protection, if you like. Or try to. No guarantees.”

Danziger shook his head vigorously, seeming alarmed by the idea.

“Let
me
handle any such precautions.”

“But—”

“Please! There are people in my neighborhood who will be far more helpful than your colleagues. If I involve the police, those people will want nothing further to do with me.”

“But you're working with me.”

“You are new. You are not yet a part of all that.”

“All what?”

“Ask Yuri Zharkov. Or better still,
don't
ask him. I have said too much. I have said too little. There are stories he knows which he would never share with you anyway. Suffice it to say that most of the time police do not keep secrets well. Present company excepted, of course. You must let me take care of things on my end. Besides, it is the two associates of Hansch and Schaller who are in the most immediate danger. Dieter and Gerhard.”

“Union rolls,” Cain said. “I'll start checking for recent signups with some of the locals. Maybe we can track them down in time. You sure you'll be okay?”

“Save your worries for yourself. I have survived for a long time, and will continue to do so. In the meantime, I, too, will make inquiries with a few old sources. People who might be helpful.”

“More guys you only vaguely know?”

The joke didn't register on Danziger, who just nodded, lost in thought. And at that moment, in the unflattering glare of the subway car, he again looked very much like the broken old man Cain had first spotted across the squad room floor.