The Yankee Club

by Michael Murphy

  “What are you saying?”

  I took a deep breath. “Their only recourse is to replace the government.”

  Stoddard’s mouth dropped. “You’re crazy. This is the United States.”

  “It happened in Italy and in Germany.”

  “A fascist dictator in America.” Stoddard raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t a plot in one of your novels. It’s the real world.”

  “Dalrymple’s smart. He understands the country wouldn’t go for a thug such as Mussolini or a crazy bastard like Hitler. The Golden Legion needs to sell the citizens on the idea that we face an emergency and this is the only way to get us out of the Depression and save the republic. They need someone popular.” I pointed to the painting. “A warrior on a white horse.”

  Stoddard’s eyes shifted between Mussolini and Greenwoody. He whispered to himself, “Is it possible?”

  “People will forget Roosevelt didn’t cause this mess. Twelve million unemployed will follow anyone who promises them a job. The veterans love Greenwoody. The whole country does.” I liked the guy until I found out he was a fan of Mussolini. I couldn’t believe Dorothy knew of her father’s involvement in a traitorous plot.

  “If you’re right …”

  I realized how crazy it sounded. Something like this couldn’t happen in America, could it?

  Stoddard rubbed his chin. “You know the reaction if I take your theory to Washington?”

  “The country gets saved and you get to go back to your real job?” Laura and I would live happily ever after?

  “We need more than just a theory. We need—”

  “Hawkins.”

  Stoddard nodded. “Hope you’re wrong. If you’re right, we have four days to save our country from the biggest threat since the Civil War.”

  I hoped I was wrong, too.

  We left the room, and Stoddard drew his gun. We crept down the stairs and into the storage room. I followed Stoddard from the building that housed the Blackshirts with the same sense of relief one got from shaking a bad case of influenza.

  Gino stood beside Frankie with several cigarette butts at his feet. He stared at Stoddard. “Who’s this?”

  I couldn’t explain Stoddard to Gino.

  “He works for Jake.” Frankie pressed his hand against his side.

  Stoddard shot Frankie a look then glared at me. He pointed toward the street where Danny stood guard at the end of the alley. “Let’s go … boss.”

  Gino checked his watch. “It’s after two. Where you going?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “You sound like your ma.”

  “Ouch.” Gino laughed.

  I reassembled my cane. “Do me a favor. Take Frankie to the hospital and get his ribs checked over.”

  Frankie shook his head. “I don’t need no doc to go poking around my ribs.”

  “At this hour, you might need a note from a doctor if you want Edith to let you in.”

  “Good point.” Frankie gestured toward the frightened guard. “What do we do with this jerk?”

  Stoddard made a face. As the guard’s eyes widened, Stoddard brought the barrel of the gun crashing against the man’s skull. The guard keeled over and blacked out. Stoddard slipped the gun inside his suit coat with a satisfied grunt. “Am I the only one around here who can make decisions?”

  While Danny, Gino, and Frankie took a cab back to the city, Stoddard and I drove to the Remington Towers. He flashed his badge to the doorman, then we went inside and took an elevator to Detective Hawkins’s apartment.

  After Stoddard tried the locked door, I removed the dagger. I slid the blade beneath the lock and twisted. The lock popped.

  “Nice work.” Stoddard drew his gun and opened the door a crack. A brass chain held the door closed. He slipped his hand inside and unhooked the chain.

  I followed him into the dark apartment, listening for Hawkins. I closed the door. A dim light above an abstract oil painting that might be a Picasso revealed a baby grand piano along one wall. Not bad on a cop’s salary.

  Stoddard headed for the bedroom while I examined an immaculate kitchen.

  “Donovan, in here.”

  This didn’t sound good.

  I stood in the bedroom doorway, as if someone had kicked me in the gut.

  A desk lay upside down. Curtains flapped from an open window. A hand stuck out from the far side of the bed next to a shattered lamp. A gold NYU ring adorned the third finger. I stepped around the clutter to confirm my fear.

  Detective Hawkins lay on the floor next to the bed, head tilted to one side, eyes open. He appeared the same as I remembered except for unblinking eyes and a round dark hole in the center of his forehead.

  Stoddard clamped his eyes shut. “The Golden Legion is always one step ahead of us.”

  I peered through the flapping curtains at the deserted street below. The killer must have locked the door and climbed down the fire escape. It might be the work of the Golden Legion, but a hunch told me otherwise. “This wasn’t someone working for The Golden Legion. It was Tony Vales.”

  “And Tony Vales wanted Hawkins dead because of you.”

  “I had no choice. I had to tell him who killed his brother.”

  “And you had to save his life.” Stoddard ripped open a dresser drawer. “Maybe we can find something I can take to my boss.”

  By the time we’d searched through every drawer of every room, it was six a.m., and I’d lost another night’s sleep. We found nothing to link Hawkins to the Golden Legion. In a desk drawer I had found a bankbook. The balance was more than twenty grand, with a five-thousand dollar deposit the day before Mickey was killed.

  I showed Stoddard.

  “It might be circumstantial, but at least we have some evidence.” He slipped the bankbook into his jacket pocket and paced the apartment. He stopped beside Hawkins’s desk and picked up the phone.

  “Who—”

  “I’m calling Laura.” He began to dial. “It’s time the two of you meet the man I work for.”

  Chapter 15

  The Presidential Suite

  Stoddard’s muffled voice broke through my fog of exhausted sleep. “And he became a bank president at age twenty-five.”

  My eyes blinked open. Stoddard sat behind the wheel of my Model A, driving through Manhattan in the early dawn. “What? Who …?”

  Stoddard took his right hand off the wheel and shook my shoulder. “You fall asleep?”

  “For a second.”

  “Son of a bitch. You hear anything I said?”

  “You mentioned your boss and I having something in common. Our grandparents came here from Ireland.” I rubbed a hand across my face as Stoddard steered the car into the parking lot of the Waldorf Astoria.

  I’d slept more than a moment. The quick nap on the way back from Detective Hawkins’s apartment clarified one thing. I couldn’t just turn this investigation over to the feds. Gino was right. I’d walked away far too often in my life when things got tough. I had to confront the threat against the government. If the Golden Legion succeeded in installing a fascist dictatorship, Laura and I’d be among the first casualties, unless Dalrymple had even more sinister plans for her.

  Stoddard pulled into a vacant space at the back of the lot and shut off the engine. “There’s something you need to know. Dalrymple was married before.”

  “He told me.”

  “I bet he didn’t tell you he had her killed.”

  In his limo, Dalrymple had mentioned she died in a car crash. “He said it was an accident.”

  Stoddard chuckled. “Oh, then it must be true. One of my sources is a reporter who covered the story. The brake lines were cut, but the cops and press couldn’t pin it on Dalrymple because of all the powerful friends he had on the force and at the reporter’s newspaper.”

  “Your friend say why he did it?”

  “She wanted a divorce. If he killed his wife because she turned on him …”

  I got the message. “Does Laura know?”

  The a
nswer flickered across Stoddard’s face even before he nodded.

  Laura met us outside the hotel at seven. She appeared as beautiful as ever in a wide-shouldered flowered dress with a pink velvet hat. Even Stoddard looked impressed.

  In the lobby I described my theory about the Golden Legion plot to install Oliver Greenwoody as a fascist dictator. When I finished, she shook her head. “I’m engaged to a traitorous bastard! Well, no one’s perfect.” She let out a nervous laugh.

  “That’s not funny.”

  Stoddard gestured toward the elevators.

  Laura’s face grew somber. “Give Jake and me a moment.”

  “Are you serious? My boss is waiting.”

  “This,” Laura glared at him, “is more important.”

  Stoddard crossed the lobby and waited at the elevator.

  Laura led me to a corner where we sat on two chairs. “I hardly slept thinking about you and my father.” She ran a hand over the stubble on my chin. “Guess you didn’t catch many winks yourself. I was an idiot for the way I acted. My life changed after you confronted my father. The news brought back a lot of conflicting memories.”

  “I understand.”

  “No, you couldn’t. He raised me after Mama left. He hated her for leaving and began to drink. I’m not making excuses.” She twisted her hands together. “I hated him for hitting me and never, ever forgave him for it, but I loved him, too, for what he lost, for what he gave up.”

  I always believed Laura relished getting into a character’s role so she wouldn’t have to live with the pain her life caused her. Even when she wasn’t in a play, she assumed roles so others would think she was the happy woman the papers made her out to be. Only I knew the truth.

  Across the lobby, Stoddard cleared his throat.

  Laura squeezed my hand. “He died alone.” She glanced around the lobby. She leaned over and kissed me then whispered, “Deservedly so.”

  I helped Laura to her feet. I gave her a warm hug, but she needed much more. “I’ll never keep secrets from you again.”

  “Never say never.” She cocked her head, the past tucked away. “Something else is bothering you.”

  “Stoddard told me Dalrymple had his wife murdered.”

  She patted my chest and let her hand linger. “Don’t overreact.”

  Overreact? “Your life is in danger!”

  “So is yours, darling, and you don’t see me getting all red in the face.” She slipped a reassuring arm in mine and led me toward an impatient Landon Stoddard waiting beside the elevator. The operator smiled as the three of us stepped inside.

  Stoddard shook his head. “Remind me never to work with a couple in love.”

  The operator nodded. “Yes, sir. What floor?”

  We rode the elevator to the Presidential Suite. We stepped off and faced massive double doors. Stoddard’s boss, whoever he was, wasn’t merely a powerful, ambitious man. The Presidential Suite at the Waldorf Astoria meant he had money and plenty of it.

  Stoddard straightened his tie, swallowed hard, and knocked.

  The door opened, revealing a handsome, tanned teenager. With a football in one hand, he flashed a boyish smile. “Look who’s still breathing: Landon Stoddard.” He stepped back and let us into the marble foyer. “You need to get up to the Cape for a few days, Mr. Stoddard. You look a little stressed. You up early or out late?”

  “Your father in?” Stoddard shook the young man’s hand.

  “Pop’s in the study.” He bowed slightly and waved us into a room larger than most houses, with thick white carpet and high ceilings.

  Another young man rose from the couch and shook Stoddard’s hand.

  “Think fast, Joe.” The teen fired the football across the room to the older boy who appeared to be the kid’s brother.

  Joe caught the ball in one hand. With slicked-back hair, serious deep eyes, and a strong chin, he was no doubt a college prep man. Future Ivy Leaguer, no doubt. He tossed the football back to his brother. “I’ll get Pop, Mr. Stoddard. It’ll be a minute.” He knocked on the double doors at the end of the room, glanced back at us, and entered.

  The young man gave Laura the once-over then offered his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met, doll.”

  She shook his hand and let go quickly. “I’m not your doll. I’m Laura Wilson.”

  “I’m Jack.” He grinned. “Pop took us to Night Whispers a month ago. You were sensational.” He scanned her dress and winked. “You still are.”

  Jack shook my hand. “You’re Jake Donovan.” He picked a newspaper off a coffee table and handed it to me. “You both made the society page.”

  The picture of us at Penn Station looked as bad as I’d imagined. We appeared to be a couple in love, and the caption implied as much. Laura Wilson, engaged to Spencer Dalrymple III … I couldn’t read any more, but Dalrymple would no doubt read the whole thing. I gave the paper back.

  Jack tossed it on the table. “I’m a big fan of yours, Mr. Donovan. I hope to be a writer someday. I read your last novel on the beach last June and couldn’t put it down. A terrific summer read.”

  “Thanks.”

  As always, Laura regained her composure faster than me. “How long have you been staying here?”

  “Just a few days. Pop’s pretty busy these days, so it’s been terrific for the most part.” Jack crossed the room and stood at the window. “There’s a Hooverville a few blocks away, in Central Park.”

  I nodded. “I was there a few days ago. Very sad.”

  Jack raised the football. I nodded, and he fired the pigskin past the couch. The ball smacked into my hands. Good arm.

  I tossed the ball back with a passable spiral as a man in a three-piece suit entered the room. In his mid-forties and far less athletic looking than his sons, he shot me a disapproving frown as Jack dove and caught the ball.

  The man shook Stoddard’s hand then removed his wire-rimmed glasses and cleaned them with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Joe, why don’t you and Jack walk down to Central Park and toss the football around?”

  Joe grabbed the football from his brother. “Sure.”

  “Take Bobby.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Oh, Pop.”

  His father smiled. “You were seven once too.”

  A young boy pushed through the double doors and ran into the room. He snatched the football from Joe and hurried to the door, sliding along the marble tile of the entryway. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  After the three boys left the suite, Stoddard introduced us to his boss. “Laura Wilson, Jake Donovan, meet my boss. Joseph Kennedy.”

  Kennedy escorted us through the double doors to a room with a walnut table and a spectacular view of Central Park. His narrow eyes and his wire-rimmed glasses reminded me more of a teller than a bank president.

  Laura displayed her usual poise and grace while I struggled to hide my impatience to learn whether Kennedy had the power and influence to act on what we’d learned about the Golden Legion. I wasn’t certain he’d take my theory about a plot against the government seriously either.

  As we gathered around the table, I set my cane beside the leather chair. Stoddard began with our latest discovery, the murder of Detective Hawkins. He mentioned the so-called baron and the Golden Legion meeting at Dalrymple’s hunting lodge. He described our visit to the Blackshirt headquarters and Greenwoody’s association with the group. After pointing out the deposit the day before Hawkins gunned down Mickey, he slid the bankbook to his boss.

  Kennedy studied the bankbook. “This should interest the Bureau.”

  “Jake,” Stoddard nodded toward me, “has a theory that the Golden Legion isn’t plotting another assassination attempt.”

  “That’s the first good news I’ve heard.” Kennedy slid the bankbook to Stoddard.

  “It’s not good news,” Laura said.

  I tried not to sound like some conspiracy fanatic. “Assassinating Roosevelt would still leave the members of the Golden Legion lacking the power and influence they lost i
n the election.”

  “Makes sense.” Kennedy nodded. “Go on.”

  “Dalrymple cultivated a relationship with Oliver Greenwoody, who appears to be the leader of the Blackshirts.” I described his painting on the white horse.

  Leaning back in his chair, Kennedy gazed out the window. “I can’t believe a war hero like Greenwoody would plot against the president.”

  I had the same reaction when I discovered the painting. “Greenwoody’s a pawn. The real threat is Spencer Dalrymple.”

  “Mr. Donovan, are you …” Kennedy’s eyes darted between Laura and me, “objective when it comes to Dalrymple?”

  I glanced toward Laura. “My personal feelings aren’t an issue here.”

  “Perhaps they are. Maybe Dalrymple wants you out of town because you’re still in love with his fiancée.”

  Laura blushed.

  Kennedy added, “And she’s in love with you.”

  “Dalrymple wants me to leave town not out of jealousy, but because I am getting close to the truth like Mickey O’Brien was. I guess gunning me down would arouse too many suspicions, so he froze my bank account and purchased my publisher to get me to drop the investigation and return to Florida. Dalrymple … the Golden Legion isn’t motivated by romance.”

  “Spencer Dalrymple isn’t in love with me,” Laura said. “A woman can tell. He needs someone … presentable to accompany him to social and political events.”

  “If you’re right, that means he has bigger plans ahead.” Kennedy cleared his throat. “So, Mr. Donovan, if Dalrymple and his coconspirators aren’t plotting an assassination, what are they planning?”

  I ignored how outrageous my words might sound. “I believe the Golden Legion is planning a coup to remove Roosevelt and place Oliver Greenwoody in charge of a fascist dictatorship.”