The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (65 page)

“Don’t tell me. The message mysteriously disappeared and the sweet girl messenger has no idea who took it or where it went.”

“Exactly.”

“And you want me to find it.”

“No. We have the message. Postal Telegraph had a copy in their files. Foxx has it now.” From memory he summarized the Sexton Blake “Dear Cousin” night letter.

“And so …?”

“I want you to find Heinrich Konrad, aka Bedrich Smetana. Do you think you can do that?”

“What, find one bad Czech in the City of New York? How long do I have to locate this character? And how much is your ever-generous employer willing to pay for my services?”

“Oh, Jake. Wait a minute.” A teenaged girl riding a bright red Schwinn and holding the leash of a black Labrador retriever pedalled past.

“Okay. We need Konrad as fast as we can get him. And you know that Foxx has never quarrelled with you over a bill.”

Jacob Maccabee stood up, slipped the fat copy of
Mein Kampf
into a copious overcoat pocket, and folded his hands behind his back. “Andy, let’s walk.”

They started along the tarmac path. The early snow had melted off the macadam but it remained on the grassy areas and the trees that surrounded the pathways. The effect was a chiaroscuro landscape punctuated by marble plinths bearing statues of half-forgotten statesmen.

“This Konrad fellow is an unpleasant individual, Andy. You know, some of us have more reason to follow events in Europe than others. I’ve seen pictures of Konrad in his Gauleiter’s uniform. I’ve seen the look in his eye.”

He paused, looking up at a statue of Chester Alan Arthur, a rotund former President. “But why is Foxx after this guy? Isn’t that the feds’ business? I imagine J. Edgar Hoover would be interested, to put it mildly.”

Winslow nodded. They started walking again. “I’m not sure what kind of passport Konrad is using now, since the powers sliced up Czechoslovakia and started giving away the pieces. Foxx was born there, you know – in what would become Czechoslovakia, while that country existed. He’s pretty cagey about the details, although there has to be an English branch of the family. Foxx says that Sexton Blake is his cousin, and another famous English sleuth is in his family tree. But he does admit that he was born in Bohemia and could even claim that citizenship if he ever wanted to.”

A breeze came sweeping through the park and a shower of snowflakes dropped from an elm tree on to Winslow and Maccabee.

“Konrad could be a citizen of – what do they call it since the treaty? – the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia. Or he could just have decided to call himself a German. It hardly matters now, Jake, does it?”

Their conversation was interrupted by a thump. A squirrel, losing its grip on a wind-swept tree limb, had fallen on to the footpath not ten yards from Winslow and Maccabee. The squirrel shook its head in comical imitation of a stunned man, looked around – could a squirrel be embarrassed? – and scampered up a nearby oak.

“Poor creature,” Maccabee grinned. “Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to be happily curled up inside a hollow tree by now?” Then to Winslow, “You mean this is personal?”

Winslow nodded. “I know Caligula Foxx about as well as any living person, I think. After all, I work for him, I live in his house, we dine together. On those rare occasions that he’s willing to leave West Adams, he likes me to drive the Packard. I’ve offered to take him in my Auburn but that’s beneath him, ‘don’t you know’.”

He paused, then added, “Anyway, he still has feelings for the land of his birth. I’m certain of that. He feels that Konrad has sold out their mutual homeland to the Nazis and he’s determined to find out what Konrad is doing in the US. And to stop him!”

Jacob Maccabee exhaled, his warm breath turning white in the frosty air. “I’ll get on to it, Andy. I’ll get some men working on it today. I’ll call a couple of pals on the daily rags and get photos of Konrad. You know, my pal Barney Hopkins got hired away from the Brooklyn
Eagle
; he’s working for the
Herald-Trib
now. Or maybe Del Marston at the
World-Telly
. Well, don’t you worry about that. I’ll get photos made and send some over to you at West Adams.”

The men shook hands. As they parted, Winslow said, “Remember, he entered the US under a false name. I don’t think he’d be calling himself Konrad.”

Maccabee said, “Got it. Relax, pal. Bedrich Smetana. Good Czech name.”

Maccabee headed east from the park; Winslow, west.

Back at West Adams Place Andy Winslow peered into the garage and noted that the Postal Telegraph messenger’s bicycle had been removed. Apparently Lieutenant Burke’s men could do something useful. Andy let himself in, wiped the snow from his shoes, and found Caligula Foxx in the parlour seated before a roaring fire. A Steinway grand piano, its size proportionate to Caligula Foxx’s great bulk, was situated well away from the fireplace. A snifter of cognac stood at Foxx’s elbow. The stack of Sunday papers had migrated from his down-filled comforter to his more than ample lap.

Winslow never ceased to be amazed at Foxx’s ability to absorb the content of every paper from the staid
Times
and
Post
, to the wild tabloids – one of which was uppermost on Foxx’s lap. It was the
Sunday Mirror.
A huge photo of a burning building filled most of the front page, a headline announcing an explosion and fire at a synagogue on Essex Street.

Foxx turned his massive head to greet his assistant. “Ah, Andy. How went it with Mr Maccabee?”

Winslow gave him a report on his meeting with the investigator. “I’ll look forward to seeing the photos of this bozo,” he concluded.

“A nasty piece of work. I have not previously mentioned that I crossed paths with
Pan
Konrad – I suppose he would prefer Herr Konrad now – towards the end of the Great War. He was serving in Emperor Franz Josef’s army at the time. It was then that I got to know him quite well. One’s loyalties are often strained by the exigencies of war.” Fox rubbed his massive forehead contemplatively. “And of politics,” he added.

Uninvited, Andy sank into a chair facing Foxx. “I didn’t know you’d served in the war.”

Foxx removed the papers from his lap and set them aside. He took a sip of brandy. “Would you like some, Andy? No? Well, not to bore you with excessive detail, but I will say that I did not serve in the war in an official capacity. Or, well, perhaps not exactly in the capacity in which I seemed to serve.” He grinned. “I hope that is not too convoluted an explanation for you.”

Winslow ignored the dig. “But unofficially?”

Foxx smiled. “Yes. I like to think that my modest talents were not entirely wasted. I was a mere lad, you understand. And
Pan
Konrad was another. We are of an age, you know. In fact, I believe that at one time we competed against each other in schoolboy athletic contests. I disliked Konrad even then. When the war broke out – that was the summer of ’14, of course – I was ready to enlist and offer my services to Franz Josef, he of such tragic memory. But, instead, a court official – I imagine at the instigation of our village priest, but one can never be certain of these things – gave me a ticket to Prague. A ticket to Prague, that lovely city, and an address at which to report.”

Foxx had a faraway look in his eyes.

“Imagine, Andy, a mere stripling lad, a
vysokó škola u enic –
nowadays we would say, a high-school scholar – entrusted with missions that would have resulted in my immediate execution, had I been captured by the Tsar’s men.”

“And you met Konrad then?”

“Andy, I thought that
Pan
Konrad was a loyal subject of the Emperor – as I was. Little did I know, my boy. I carry a scar to this day – you have never seen it, nor will you, I trust – but I bear that scar to this day, and I will carry it with me even when I go to meet my maker. A scar, courtesy of Heinrich Konrad.”

“And now he’s calling himself Bedrich Smetana,” Winslow supplied.

Foxx held his brandy snifter and gazed through it at the dancing flames. He was in the habit, Andy Winslow knew, of changing the subject at any time, with little or no notice. And yet, when one reviewed the conversation afterwards, a relevance in Foxx’s words was always apparent. Now he asked, quite suddenly, “Did you happen to pass by Wanamaker’s on your way home from your meeting with Maccabee?”

“I did, Caligula.”

“Have they put up their light display? Surely they would have done so by now. I had not yet got to the customary photographs of it in the rotogravure sections when I was so rudely interrupted this morning.”

“Yes, it’s up. It’s truly magnificent, Caligula. I would have been home sooner but I stopped to admire the lights. And the children, of course. Swarms of them, with beaming parents, come to look at the colourful lights, and wreaths, and trees. And of course, the presents.”

“Well, Andy, I’m glad that it snowed today. That would add to the children’s pleasure. But now,” – he lifted an inch-thick sheaf of papers off the larger stack – “to return to the unpleasantness of Heinrich Konrad. I have here a list of events in the city, planned by Herr Kuhn’s German–American Bund, and other organizations of its ilk. I want you to study these and coordinate your efforts with those of Jacob Maccabee. Surely
Pan
Konrad will be at some of them. You will need to be there as well.”

“Then we’re not giving this to Jacob Maccabee?”

“Andy, Andy.” Foxx heaved a great sigh. Considering his bulk, it would have done justice to a rugby squad. “I have the greatest admiration for Jacob and his little band of merry men. And women.”

He paused to lace his fingers, this time across his bulbous abdomen.

“But I believe in casting more than one line into the stream when I set out to catch a fish. Yes. Heinrich Konrad is a very slippery and elusive fish, but I mean to catch him if I can. Jacob will do his work. You will do yours.”

He shuffled the papers in his lap. You’d have thought there was no order to them, and perhaps there was not; but, shortly, Foxx’s surprisingly sensitive fingers emerged with a slickly printed section of a Sunday publication.

“Here is a list of events over the next few days, Andy. Most of them are society dances, weddings and birth announcements. But there are also cultural gatherings. Buried among the concerts and art exhibitions are events scheduled by groups with which
Pan
Konrad would surely be in sympathy, and to which I would be astonished if he were not invited.”

He fixed his assistant with a sharp look.

“Do you think you could pass for a Nazi sympathizer, Herr Winslow?”

Andy Winslow leaped to his feet. He clicked his heels, gave a mock stiff-armed salute, and barked, “
Sieg heil!
”

Fox said, “Pretty good, Andy. You might want to practice a bit more. But that wasn’t bad.” Then Foxx made one of his lightning-like transitions. “Have you seen the lovely Miss Rose Palmer lately, my boy?”

“Of course.” Winslow paused. “Of course,” he repeated. “We see each other from time to time.”

“A most competent and talented young lady,” Foxx said. “And quite attractive, I should say.”

“I wouldn’t quarrel with that.”

“Very well, then. Here’s what you are to do. I am planning a little holiday supper for tomorrow evening. While you were conversing with Jacob Maccabee this afternoon, I met with Reuter and planned the menu
du soir
. A very small gathering, you understand. Strictly informal, no need to dress. You will invite Jacob and an associate of his choice. I trust you to communicate with Jacob. And of course Miss Palmer and yourself will be present. Eight o’clock promptly, cocktails and supper.”

Andy Winslow said, “Okay. I’ll take care of that. What else?”

Foxx rattled the slick section of the newspaper. It was part of
The New York Journal-American.
He poked a carefully manicured finger at a column of event notices. “‘The Beethoven–Wagner Cultural Institute is holding a luncheon meeting at the Blaue Gans Restaurant on Duane Street this Wednesday: reading of the minutes, a
heimatlich
meal, good Cherman
bier,
and the introduction of a special guest-speaker from the
Heimat.
’ I have a feeling that the special guest-speaker will be Herr Konrad. The meeting is open to all like-minded patriots.”

“Sounds pretty dull to me. You know Count Basie and Billie Holiday are more my speed. I just don’t understand that longhair opera stuff, Caligula.”

Foxx lowered the newspaper and lifted his brandy. He took a sip of the beverage, then returned the snifter to its place. “Andrew, your musical taste, execrable though it may be, is your own concern. I will not engage in debate over the matter. But the Beethoven–Wagner Cultural Institute is not a music appreciation society. I assure you of that. When you get there you will find out what I mean. You still carry that little popgun that I gave you, do you not?”

Winslow tapped his chest. “Sweet little Beretta 1934. Not that I’ve had to use it very often.”

“Nor would I wish you to. But when the time comes, do not hesitate. And now,” Foxx stacked the Sunday newspapers carefully beside his chair, drew a golden turnip from a pocket and examined it, then repeated, “and now, I shall retire to my greenhouse and assure myself that the dear roses are safely enjoying their winter hibernation.”

*

Martha Mayhew was sitting up in bed when Andy Winslow entered her hospital room. She looked about a thousand per cent better than she had the day before. Which is to say, she looked like a young woman with a bandaged forehead rather than a wax dummy or a corpse waiting to be transported to the morgue. She was holding a movie fan magazine, slowly turning the pages of photos of Greta Garbo and Myrna Loy, Gary Cooper and Robert Montgomery, stopping in between to study ads for cosmetics and shampoos.

Winslow reminded her of who he was and she managed a smile of acknowledgement. She said that she was feeling better today. She also told him that she was starting to remember the previous day’s events. “I was trying to deliver a night letter to your house.”