The Fairfax Incident

by Terrence McCauley

  “We get the justice we deserve based on the path we choose for ourselves. Those men chose crime over work. They chose their path just as you and I have chosen ours. Fortunately, our paths have crossed at this particular point in time.” He tucked the pipe into the corner of his mouth, struck a match, and lit the bowl. “Speaking of which, Harry said you had an enigmatic notebook to show me.”

  I didn’t know what enigmatic meant, but I dug the notebook out of my overcoat and handed it over. “Mr. Van Dorn said you spent a lot of time studying old cultures and languages. Stuff like that.”

  “Yes.” His eyes brightened. “Stuff like that. I’m sure you were surprised that a priest studied such things. Well, I learned long ago that one can never tell what will pique the interest of the Church of Rome. She has a surprisingly curious and agile mind. And it’s a good thing for you she has, or else I’d be of little use to you today.”

  He puffed away at his pipe as he began to remove the rubber bands from the notebook. “Now, let us see what secrets you have brought me.”

  That made me remember what Mr. Van Dorn said about secrecy. “I hope Mr. Van Dorn told you he’d like to keep this just between the three of us for now.” Then I remembered I was talking to a priest. “I guess you guys are pretty good at keeping secrets.”

  The Jesuit laughed as he removed the last rubber band. “You have no idea. Tell me where you found this again. Harry was appropriately vague when he phoned me. And don’t be shy with details. I have been fully briefed about the Fairfax incident.”

  I thought a priest using a word like “briefed” sounded a little official, but I let it go. “It was in Walter Fairfax’s safe, along with a lot of other things. Ledgers, bank accounts, deeds on property he’d bought. Things like that. Everything was in English, except that book. I think it’s German, but the handwriting’s tough to make out.”

  I watched Father Mullins carefully leaf through the notebook, slowly turning each page has his eyes moved over the words. “Your Mr. Fairfax has some rather unique interests, Charles. These are prayers, but not the kinds of prayers you and I are used to saying.”

  He flipped through some more pages, stopping on the circle of symbols I’d mentioned to Mr. Van Dorn. “Take this, for example. These symbols are Armanen runes, devised some thirty years ago by a German mystic called Guido von List.”

  “A German named Guido?”

  “Our Teutonic brethren have always been an eclectic people,” Father Mullins said. “Runes are like an alphabet, except they represent ideas rather than mere letters. Von List claimed these symbols came to him in a vision back in 1902, and that they represent ancient wisdoms of the religion of the original Germanic tribes.”

  “Jesus,” I said before I could catch myself.

  “I’m afraid Jesus has nothing to do with it, Charles, which was List’s point. He said these runes represented an ancient wisdom so powerful that the Catholic Church had kept it hidden from the Germanic people as a way to enslave them.” Another laugh. “As if anyone has ever been able to get a German to do anything against his will. Your last name is Doherty. I take it you were raised Catholic?”

  “I was, but I’ll admit I haven’t kept up for a while.”

  “That’s a topic for another discussion,” Father Mullins said. “You and I were raised to believe in the power of prayer. Asking God’s grace before meals or during a trying time. Guido Von List believed in a different kind of prayer, almost like a conjuring or a spell. He believed these runes had magical powers all their own. And, unlike our prayers, not just anyone could use them. He believed Germans had descended from a pure and gifted race, while all non-Germans were impure and irrelevant. He had a special hatred for all things related to Jews. Since Christianity is based on the belief of a Jewish Messiah, he said Christianity was an invalid religion as well.”

  All of this was beginning to get too complicated for me, so I stayed focused on my original question. “So this notebook is a prayer book?”

  “Yes,” Father Mullins said. “Probably written in Mr. Fairfax’s own hand as a way to learn and remember them, much the way children today write the Our Father and Hail Mary.” He looked at the handwriting again. “This doesn’t seem to be written in a child’s hand, so I’d say he wrote them much later than that. That means he must have subscribed to List’s teachings recently, and therefore believed these symbols were an actual source of active power.”

  I had heard everything he said, but none of it really made much sense. “People these days really believe that stuff?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Father Mullins said. “I actually saw List speak once in Vienna, back in 1903. The man was obviously a lunatic, but he managed to convince an impressive array of German leaders to buy into his philosophy before the Great War. Industrialists, bankers, philosophers, newspaper owners. A great many members of the aristocracy as well. Some argue his teachings played a role in giving Germany their feeling of invincibility and entitlement that caused them to force the war in the first place.”

  “But the war’s been over for a long time.”

  “List’s teachings were largely forgotten following the war,” Father Mullins explained. “Nationalistic movements like his always go into retreat after a bitter defeat like Germany suffered. But some of his followers in the upper classes kept the faith, finding particular comfort in List’s prophecy that a German messiah would one day make Germany the dominant nation it was destined to be. Unfortunately, List’s teachings have enjoyed something of a resurgence in popularity as of late.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the recent elevation of a man who some believe to be that Germanic messiah List had predicted,” Father Mullins said. “Adolph Hitler.”

  “But he’s a politician, not a priest.”

  “From what I’ve read of Hitler’s rhetoric, he has melded religion with his political beliefs to give him an air of validity amongst some of German’s leading families. And since Mr. Fairfax has a prayer book recently written in his own hand, citing List’s runes and prayers, we must assume that he subscribes to at least some of Mr. Hitler’s beliefs.”

  Even though Father Mullins had been talking for a while, it hadn’t hit me until that moment. A possible explanation for everything that had happened to me the day before. “That fits, Father. See, there’s a woman—”

  “There often is where men like Fairfax are involved. I take it you’re referring to Countess Alexandra von Holstein. Yes, Harry told me about her. I know nothing about her, but given what Harry said you found in Fairfax’s safe, and the recent nature of the writings here in this notebook, it’s quite possible she introduced Walter to the mysteries of Aryan philosophy.”

  Although everything Father Mullins had told me was interesting as hell, it didn’t tell me what I really wanted to know. “Too bad there’s nothing in that notebook that explains why he shot himself.”

  The Jesuit flipped through more pages. “Perhaps it does.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d talked to someone who made me feel so dumb without even trying. “How, Father?”

  “Think it through, Charles. The people who attacked you on the street and in the office are most likely the same people. They wanted to stop you for some reason. The contents of that safe and this notebook are most likely that reason. These are arcane beliefs. Most people have the same reaction to them as you did when I told you about them. Yet, some very powerful people hold these beliefs dear and want to keep them from the general public so they can introduce them in more acceptable, subtle ways. Ways, I fear, Mr. Hitler and his ilk are employing in Germany today. I would be surprised if this Countess Alexandra isn’t involved in Fairfax’s adoption of these beliefs. I’m sure she wishes to keep evidence of her influence on him from being known, since it may have played a role in his suicide.”

  “I haven’t heard of too many countesses getting involved in r
ough stuff, Father.”

  “Assuming she’s really a countess at all. I think you’ve already learned far more about this woman than she wanted anyone to know. And you may learn even more in the days ahead. If she is involved in the attacks on you, I doubt she’ll stop now.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Father.” I patted my gun beneath my coat. “I can handle myself.”

  “Don’t be too sure.” He wrapped the rubber bands back around the notebook and handed it back to me. “I doubt you’ve ever encountered people like this before, Charles, at least knowingly. They are dabbling in dark things they don’t truly understand, which makes them incredibly dangerous.” He handed me his business card. “I want you to call me should you ever feel the need. Day or night, no matter the hour. Call Harry, of course, but if you think I can be of use to you, please don’t hesitate.”

  I didn’t see why I’d need to speak to the priest again, especially now that he’d explained the notebook. But I pocketed the card anyway as I stood up. “Thanks for all of the information, Father, but all I’m trying to do is figure out why a man killed himself.”

  His smile was a little different this time. “For your sake I hope it’s that simple, but I fear it isn’t.”

  Chapter 13

  As soon as I got back to my place, I began writing down everything Father Mullins had just told me. I wanted to get it all down on paper while it was still fresh in my head.

  The Kraut named Guido. Runes. Spells. Ancient knowledge. Pagan bullshit. None of it made much sense. Trying to figure out why Fairfax had killed himself was bad enough. Dumping a new religion into the mix just made the whole goddamned thing even more complicated than it already was.

  But the more complicated things got, the more important Countess Alexandra von Holstein became. The documents in the safe proved she had her hooks pretty deep into Fairfax. And if she’d pulled him into this religion Father Mullins was talking about, then she had a stronger hold on him than even Dr. Blythe thought.

  Although there was a good chance I’d be seeing her at the Stuyvesant Society Gala, I was anxious to see what Mr. Van Dorn had found out from the papers I had given his men earlier that morning. I was about to give him a call when the phone rang.

  “Imagine that,” said the familiar voice on the other end of the line. “A big shot like you answering his own phone. I’m impressed as hell, Doherty. I figured you’d just let the maid get it. Or the butler.”

  It was Detective Stephen Hauser, Chief Carmichael’s current Black Hand. I’d been so used to being polite to my clients all the time, I had to remember how to be glib. Luckily, Hauser brought out the worst in me.

  “It’s the maid’s day off. Besides, not everybody’s as lucky as Carmichael to have a flunky to do their dirty work for them. What do you want, Hauser? I’ve got a polo match in Central Park in twenty minutes.”

  “No kidding?” It sounded like he was flipping pages back and forth. “Funny, I thought you’d be getting your hair done in time for that big shindig at the Waldorf tonight.”

  I didn’t like what he’d said or the way he’d said it. “How do you know about that?”

  “Contrary to popular belief, I read pretty good,” Hauser said. “I’m reading all about it right here in Dr. Blythe’s calendar for this evening.”

  I got that rotten feeling again. “How the hell did you get a hold of his calendar?”

  “Because I’m calling you from his den right now. Your new pal is dead, Doherty. Looks like he’s been that way for a few hours, too.”

  I grabbed a pen and paper on my desk. “What’s the address? I’m coming over.”

  “Damn,” he said. “And here I was, hoping you’d refuse so I could come drag you over here by your hair.”

  “Goddamn it, Hauser. What’s the address?”

  “The El Dorado. Three hundred Central Park West. Oh, and the chief wanted me to mention that he’d like—”

  I didn’t give a damn what the chief liked. I hung up the phone and headed for the door.

  *****

  The crime scene photographer was already taking pictures of Dr. Blythe’s body when I got there. A kid who looked like he’d just gotten his detective badge was chewing gum like a cow chewed cud while he scribbled something in a notebook.

  I might not have been a cop anymore, but I still had cop instincts. I took in the scene in sections, just like I’d been taught.

  The heavy dark drapes that hung in front of the study’s windows were closed. The only light in the room came from a chandelier and from the photographer’s flash.

  Dr. Blythe’s body was slumped back in a chair behind the desk. His head was lolled off to the right, mouth slack. His dead eyes were half closed, staring into the great beyond. The tufts of hair that had been neatly combed when I’d met him at his club were now a puffy mess, sticking up at odd angles. He was wearing a smoking jacket and pajamas. The jacket was open.

  The glass tumbler of cut crystal on the blotter was either half empty or half full, depending on how you looked at it. But either way you looked at it, Dr. Blythe was dead.

  I stood in the doorway of the study, careful to keep out of the way of the crime scene shots. But even from that distance, I could see the liquid in the glass was clear. The stench in the room confirmed it was gin.

  I had only met Dr. Blythe the day before, but there was something about the man that I had liked. Maybe understood was more like it. He was a haunted man, filled with regret over things he’d done and hadn’t done. I could tell he was well on his way to realizing that no amount of booze could take away his pain or guilt. I already knew those things never faded, like scars on the soul.

  All that guilt and regret over Fairfax’s death had plagued him, and now he was dead, too. Just another corpse to tag and bag and file away.

  At least that’s what someone was banking on.

  Because even though I’d just gotten there, I could see one thing plain as day:

  Dr. Matthew Blythe had been murdered.

  I damn near jumped when I felt a large presence near me. I was glad it was only Hank Kronauer, the city’s deputy chief medical examiner.

  “Mornin’, Charlie,” the fat man muttered as he passed me. His ancient black medical bag looked small in his fleshy hand. “They pull you out of mothballs for this one? Hope they didn’t put you through too much trouble. Heart attack, plain and simple. Plain as day. Seen it a thousand times.”

  I hadn’t seen Kronauer in the year since I’d been forced into retirement, but he hadn’t changed a bit since the day I first met him twenty years before. He’d been over three hundred pounds then and he hadn’t lost an ounce since. His suspenders strained to contain his girth as he leaned over to get a closer look at the corpse. The photographer was annoyed Kronauer had ruined his shot, but was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. When Kronauer arrived at a crime scene, it was his. Everyone else be damned.

  His double chin swayed as his beady eyes moved over the body. He could see more in a glance than some examiners could see even after an autopsy. “Yep, coronary’s my bet. No overt signs of foul play. No apparent wounds or abrasions or anything of that nature. No blood or weapon in sight.”

  He sniffed the air near the corpse’s mouth and quickly pulled back. “Heavy presence of alcohol. Gin, I believe.” Another sniff, then something of a smile. “Expensive gin at that. I’d say he’d been tipping it back pretty good when it happened, judging by the strong aroma. Probably the reason for the coronary in the first place. Silly old bastard. Can’t drink like you’re twenty forever, you know?”

  I waited for the mope from homicide to say something, but he just stood there taking notes. So I asked Kronauer, “Ballpark on time of death?”

  That got the mope’s attention. “Nobody said you can ask questions, Doherty. You’re here as an observer. Just stand there and keep quiet until Hauser comes for you.�
��

  He’d tried to sound tough, but came off sounding like a kid. I ignored Junior and waited for Kronauer’s answer. “How about it, Hank?”

  The coroner put the back of his thick hand to Dr. Blythe’s forehead. “It’s eleven thirty now. The maid found him at half past seven this morning and called it in.” He squeezed Blythe’s lifeless hand. “Rigor’s come and gone already. I’d say he passed sometime around three this morning, give or take. But I’ll know more when I get him on the table.”

  Kronauer stood up to his full height and hitched his pants up over his impressive gut. “It’s got to be his ticker. Overweight male in his late fifties and, from the looks and smell of it, a heavy drinker.”

  He was speaking louder than normal, like he wanted to make sure for someone to overhear him. I watched him quickly glance behind me, like someone was standing just outside the room. I didn’t bother to look. I knew it had to be Hauser.

  Kronauer took a cigar from the inside of his jacket and popped it into his mouth. “Probably a heavy smoker, I’d wager. All in all, a prime candidate for a coronary. No doubt about it.”

  In all the years I’d known him, I’d never known Kronauer to be so flippant about a body. He wasn’t conducting an investigation. He was putting on a performance for Hauser’s benefit.

  I’d heard enough. “Sounds like you’re trying to talk yourself into something, Hank.”

  “No need to convince myself of something I already know. Overweight, heavy drinker? Coronary. Case closed.”

  “Christ, Kronauer. Sounds like you’re looking into a mirror.”

  “With one key difference, Charlie.” He struck a match off the side of Dr. Blythe’s desk and lit his cigar. “I’m still alive.”

  Detective Steven Hauser walked into the study from behind me. “Well, look who showed up and decided to play detective. How’s every little thing, Charlie?”

  Hauser was a bit taller than me and about five years younger. He was broader and more muscular than me, too. By a lot. He had thick, dirty-blond hair and dead blue eyes that scared the hell out of suspects, but never had that effect on me.