The Yankee Club

by Michael Murphy

Dalrymple’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I’m not overthrowing the government. I’m returning the republic to the system for which it was intended.”

  “The people will disagree with you.”

  “The people.” Dalrymple dismissed my comment with a wave. “The public will be relieved when they’re back to work.”

  Debating with a madman was useless. “Plenty of innocent people have already died so you can install a fascist dictator you can control. How many more?”

  His arrogant smirk was more disconcerting than his laughter. “You’ve written too many murder mysteries. I don’t intend to kill you or Laura … unless I have to. I still need you both. For example, I need you to tell me who you’re working for.”

  “Laura only went along to help solve Mickey O’Brien’s murder.”

  “You cooperate, I’ll let you live. Ever been to San Francisco? The ocean view from Alcatraz might remind you of Florida.” He gazed out the window with a wistful look toward Stone’s car. “Laura’s still useful to me. We have a ball to attend tonight. On Friday we … never mind about my plans. If she thinks she’ll keep you alive, she’ll do as I say.”

  “You don’t know Laura. She’ll cut off your balls and jam them down your throat the first chance she gets.”

  He glared with maniacal rage. His hand shook as he rapped twice on the side window. Dalrymple wasn’t merely a smug, calculating businessman; he was an on-the-edge-of-insanity megalomaniac.

  The driver pulled the door open and yanked me out of the limo.

  “Your fly’s open.” When the driver glanced down, I straightened my tie and winked at Dalrymple. “See you soon.”

  He chuckled. “If we ever meet again, it will be through the bars of a prison.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m certain of it.”

  Stone opened the rear door of his car. Laura stepped out. Her eyes misted. She blinked away the tears and stood with her head held high, this time not for Stone’s benefit, but for mine. “See you soon, Jake.”

  “Count on it.”

  The driver opened the door to the limo. When Laura slipped inside, he slammed the door, ran around to the front, and climbed inside. The limo sped away, kicking up gravel.

  I clamped my eyes shut at the sight of Laura taken from me. I’d do whatever it took to free her. I turned and stumbled.

  Stone pointed to the fishing boat.

  “I need my cane.” I grabbed my leg.

  “No you don’t.”

  “Decks get wet and slippery.”

  Stone reached inside the car and tossed me the cane. “Get moving.”

  At the edge of the dock I stepped on board the rusty gray boat with Betsy Ross painted on the hull in fading blue script. Lobster traps were stacked along the wheelhouse. A winch with a rope and a heavy metal hook for setting traps hung over the bow like a hangman’s noose.

  Stone climbed on board and drew his gun.

  I ignored the weapon and stared. “Only one of us is going to leave this boat alive.”

  For the first time since he entered Averill Cornwell’s office, Stone didn’t look so sure of himself. He glanced away, took my cane, and tossed me a pair of handcuffs. “Put these on.” When I hesitated, he raised his gun and aimed the barrel between my eyes.

  I cuffed my wrists in front of me as the door to the wheelhouse opened. Dalrymple’s Nazi friend, Karl Friedman, came out. He wore a thick blue peacoat with a red swastika embroidered on the collar, and black leather gloves. His expression of triumph stung nearly as much as the sight of Laura driving away in Dalrymple’s limo. “Good morning, Mr. Donovan. Lovely day for a cruise, no?”

  He took my cane from Stone and studied the handle. “Superb German craftsmanship.” With a laugh, he twisted the handle and removed the dagger. He tossed the shaft overboard then ran a hand along the blade. “This might be useful later.” He stuffed the dagger inside his coat. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Stone untied the mooring rope. He gave the dock a shove with his shoe then headed for the wheelhouse. A moment later, a gray cloud smelling of diesel spilled from the smokestack. Propellers churned the water, and the boat eased away from the dock.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Donovan. It’s going to take a few hours.”

  I tried to imagine the destination and took a guess. “Dalrymple’s hunting lodge.”

  “You’re an intuitive fellow. I salute you.” The Nazi clicked his heels together and gestured toward a bench on the starboard side.

  I plopped down and leaned back against the wheelhouse.

  Friedman stood beside me. He pointed out the city skyline, including the new Empire State Building, as I tried to figure out a plan to overpower the pompous Nazi and the crooked cop.

  From the East River, we made our way into Long Island Sound. Once in open water, we passed steamers and barges. We followed the shoreline north toward thick angry clouds. An hour later, Stone cut the engine to the boat. The wind whipped across the bow. The boat began to toss.

  The Nazi sucked in a long gulp of air. “This is more like it. Reminds me of the North Sea.”

  “Maybe you should go home if you miss it so much.”

  “In due time.” He sat beside me. “My father was a real baron, before the Great War. A generous landowner, benevolent in so many ways. What he didn’t lose because of the armistice, the government took, piece by piece. His last two years, he lived in a loft paying rent to a Jew downstairs who operated a jewelry store on the first floor.”

  “Where is the jeweler now, some camp?”

  Friedman’s face whitened. He looked like he could shoot me. He was obeying orders, but did they come from Dalrymple, or the German high command? He turned the collar of his coat up against the wind. “Who are you working for, Mr. Donovan?” When I didn’t answer, he pointed to the rolling ocean. “Are you a good swimmer?”

  Not with my hands cuffed. The whitecapped waves looked cold. Stone walked to the winch and grabbed the hook. “Stand up.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The Nazi pulled a Luger from his jacket and aimed it at me.

  I rose.

  Stone slid the hook through the cuffs and led me to the bow.

  They were bluffing, weren’t they?

  Stone kneed me in the back and shoved me overboard.

  I splashed into the icy water. Fighting the urge to gasp from the cold, I kicked my legs, rose to the surface, and gulped for air.

  The engine started. The propellers churned the water into foam, and the boat began to move. I struggled to wiggle the hook from the cuffs and keep my head above water as the Betsy Ross picked up steam. The rope pulled me below the water. I held my breath, twisted on the rope, trying to free my hands from the hook.

  Lungs burning, I tugged the rope from the hook and finally pulled myself free. I kicked my way to the surface. As the boat circled back, I sucked in a ragged gulp of air. A wave hit. I swallowed water and choked.

  I wouldn’t be able to tread water long with my hands cuffed. I sank below the surface again and managed to bob like a cork. My strength failed from the effort and the freezing wet cold.

  A life preserver splashed in front of me. I held on until someone pulled me aboard.

  The wind snapped my wet clothes and sent chills throughout my body. Shivering, I fell to the deck on my hands and knees, gagging and coughing up water. The boat lurched side to side.

  A wave of nausea surged from my gut.

  Friedman kicked a boot in my side. “Get up.”

  I spit more water on the deck then dry-heaved.

  “You’re not so tough as you were at The Yankee Club with your friends around.” The Nazi kicked me again. “Get up.”

  “Give me a second. I’ll tell you who I’m working for.” I pulled myself to my feet, dripping water onto the deck.

  Stone tossed me a blanket.

  The bastard flashed a triumphant smile. “Who are you working for, Mr. Donovan?”

  I wrapped the blanket around me and took a deep brea
th to stifle the chattering. “M … my uncle.”

  “Who’s your uncle?”

  “S … Sam. Uncle Sam.”

  Friedman clenched both fists. His head looked ready to explode. He shoved me toward Stone. “Prepare him for the procedure.”

  The word procedure sent a chill deeper than the icy North Atlantic had.

  Stone, who looked queasy from the rolling waves, led me belowdeck and shoved me onto the edge of a bunk. He cuffed my wrist to the metal frame of the bunk as Friedman sauntered down the steps into the cramped quarters.

  I braced myself for what was to come. “I don’t have anything to say.”

  The Nazi removed a small black case from his jacket. “I cultivated many skills in Germany, Mr. Donovan. Specialties that involve making people talk. You will talk and tell us who you’re working for.”

  “I work for Empire Press, last time I checked. Though Dalrymple might have some say about that.”

  Friedman backhanded me across the face, splitting my lip. “What is it you say in this country? Wise guy. We know you work for the same man who hired the late Mickey O’Brien. Tell me his name.”

  I spit blood on the Nazi’s coat.

  “Have it your way.” He opened the case and pulled out a hypodermic needle.

  “I’ve had all my shots.” I’d read about truth serums while researching my first mystery. If I concentrated on something vivid, I might not reveal Stoddard and Kennedy, the extent of Laura’s involvement, and what I knew about the Golden Legion’s plans.

  Friedman stuck the needle into a vial of clear liquid, filling it half full. “Hold him still.”

  Stone held my free arm as the Nazi approached the bunk and smiled. “As my doctor is fond of saying, this may sting a bit.” Looking positively giddy, he stuck the needle in my neck.

  It hurt like a son of a bitch. A warm flush replaced the pain. Dizziness followed. I closed my eyes, hearing Friedman tell me to lie down for a few moments. Before everything went black, I thought about Laura. I pictured the vivid image of her standing in the doorway of my hospital room, her long legs visible through her white chiffon dress backlit by the bright lights above the nurses’ station.

  I awoke and tried to sit up. My head felt twice its size. Where was I? Memories returned. I was on the Betsy Ross on my back, cuffed to a bunk. A shaft of daylight illuminated the stairs leading to the deck. How much time had I lost? Had I revealed anything useful to my captors?

  The boat no longer rolled. The storm had passed, or perhaps we’d arrived at our destination. Shaking off the fog, I forced myself to think. I tugged my left hand cuffed to the bed frame. I ran my hand along the lapel of my wrinkled suit coat and found Laura’s hat pin still fixed to the material. I stuck the pin inside the handcuff lock.

  My two captors were armed. Stone had a revolver, Friedman had my dagger and a Luger. I had a hat pin.

  Shouts came from above deck. Friedman and Stone argued. The Nazi was winning. “Then wake him up. Now.”

  Stone stomped down the stairs. I ceased my efforts to unlock the cuffs and palmed the pin.

  “Drink this.” With his skin a gray shade of green, Stone handed me a cup of water.

  I sat up, took the cup with a shaking hand, and drank. I handed the empty cup back. “What time is it?”

  “You had a nice long sleep. It’s Wednesday afternoon.”

  I’d lost most of a day.

  His eyes widened as if he were about to be sick.

  “It helps if you just go ahead and puke.”

  He covered his mouth and swallowed hard. “I did, and it doesn’t.”

  “You’re working for the Nazis.”

  “I work for a rich American banker who pays well.”

  “It’s about money?”

  “Ever notice how people who’ve got dough badmouth those who want some? I worked twenty years on the force, putting my life on the line so often I didn’t care anymore. I live in the same dingy fleabag apartment I did when Mickey and I joined the force. Two years ago my wife got sick. Used up what savings we had and she still died. A man does what he has to do.”

  “There are other alternatives. If you’ll—”

  “Bring him on deck,” Friedman shouted from above.

  “Let’s go.” Stone uncuffed me from the bunk then cuffed my hands in front of me.

  With Stone behind me, I stumbled up the stairs, knowing this might be my last chance to overcome my captors. Keeping the cuffs close to me, once again I used Laura’s hat pin on the cuffs that dug into my wrists.

  On deck, I squinted into bright sunlight. I forced a smile when I greeted Friedman, who nodded back and gestured away from the deck with a victorious sneer.

  The boat was moored alongside a white speedboat at a dock fifty yards from a two-story log building with plate-glass windows. Two uniformed guards on the front porch smoked cigarettes, barely paying us any attention. A path led through trees to a rocky beach and the pier.

  “Dalrymple’s hunting lodge.” Every time Friedman looked away, I worked to spring the lock on the cuffs. This time I felt the cuff loosen as the lock worked its way open. I pulled the lock against my suit coat so the Nazi wouldn’t notice.

  Friedman grinned. “Mr. Dalrymple will be surprised to learn of your feelings for his fiancée.”

  “Not that surprised.”

  “I don’t care about your love life, though I’m sure Mr. Dalrymple won’t be so understanding.” The Nazi’s frown pulled his eyebrows together. “While you dozed, you revealed you’re working for someone named Landon Stoddard. Who does he work for?”

  I glanced back at Stone and lowered my voice. “It might be a death sentence for us both if he hears before you do.”

  “What?” Friedman glanced over my shoulder at Stone.

  “I’ll only tell you.”

  “Very well.” He gestured to Stone, who leaned against the wheelhouse.

  I moved closer to the Nazi. With the open cuff, I cracked his face, slicing a two-inch gash, then reached inside his coat. I grabbed my dagger and plunged it into his gut.

  Friedman’s eyes widened as I twisted the blade. Blood flowed from his mouth. He grabbed the dagger handle with his black-gloved hands, giving me time to reach inside his coat and find his Luger. I held the dying man up, shifted my feet, and kept him between Stone and me.

  Stone fired twice with his service revolver. The first bullet knocked a lobster trap onto the deck with a loud bang.

  The second struck Friedman in the chest. When he fell, I fired.

  Stone crumpled to the deck. He grabbed his leg and moaned, much as I had outside Mickey’s office building.

  I kicked Stone’s gun from his hand. The revolver sailed over the railing and splashed into the water. Tossing aside the handcuffs, I untied the rope from the pier. I ran toward the wheelhouse and started the engine. I gunned the throttle forward. The heavy boat scraped the side of the dock then slowly picked up steam and headed toward the setting sun shimmering off the calm bay.

  Behind me, a bullet shattered the wood molding of the wheelhouse. The two guards sprinted from the lodge, firing on the run. The back window of the wheelhouse shattered, showering me in bits of glass. I yanked the steering wheel hard to port and ducked as bullets splintered the deck.

  Stone pulled himself to his feet and lurched into the opening of the wheelhouse on one leg.

  “Get down,” I shouted, steering the boat in a zigzag pattern.

  Bullets peppered the deck. Stone’s body jerked. He spun backward. He sprayed me and the front window with blood from a gaping wound in his neck. Grabbing his throat, he tumbled overboard with a sickening splash.

  As the heavy boat moved away from shore, the speedboat roared to life. The Betsy Ross had a hundred-yard lead, but the speedboat closed rapidly. I’d never outrun my pursuers.

  Behind me came the familiar rat-a-tat of a tommy gun. Bullets sailed overhead. I glanced back through the shattered window. A man holding the tommy gun stood on the bow of the speedboa
t. The sleek boat cut through the waves, bouncing the front of the boat, leaving a long sharp wake. Until they drew closer, only a lucky shot would hit me.

  With seconds until they moved into range, I ripped off my tie. My hands shook as I knotted one end to the steering wheel and secured the other end to the throttle. With the boat heading straight out to sea, I ducked down. In a crouch, I slipped from the wheelhouse and headed for the bow railing. Bracing myself, I dove into the icy water.

  I swam as far as possible underwater then surfaced. The Betsy Ross moved away. The speedboat swept past me. I took a deep breath and dove beneath the waves, hoping the two guards hadn’t seen me leave the boat.

  On the speedboat, the man with the tommy gun sprayed the stern of the Betsy Ross. I kicked as fast and as long as I could before coming up. As bullets ripped the boat, I gulped air and dove beneath the water again.

  An explosion echoed above the water. An orange ball boiled across the surface. A bullet must have punctured the Betsy Ross’s gas tank.

  Debris splashed all around me as I surfaced. Fifty yards away the flaming hulk of the fishing boat sank beneath the surface. A gray cloud of smoke and steam hovered over the water. A hand in a black glove trailed blood as it floated past me.

  As the speedboat circled the fishing-boat wreckage, I swam toward shore. Halfway, I treaded water a moment watching a half-dozen men on the pier gazing in the direction of the circling speedboat and the setting sun. The men passed a pair of binoculars between them.

  My tiring muscles began to cramp from the frigid water. I ignored the pain and dropped beneath the surface. I swam below the water until I thought my lungs might explode. I came up for air and took a quick glance back at the speedboat. One of the guards sifted through the wreckage with a grappling hook, looking for survivors, no doubt.

  A bright beam from the pier swept the waves six feet in front of me. I swam beneath the surface and kicked toward shore hoping I hadn’t been spotted.

  Chapter 18

  High Noon at the Plaza

  My arms ached, but each stroke through the icy water brought me closer to shore. Minutes later, my feet touched sand. I fought my way through the waves and collapsed on the beach. I ignored the overwhelming need to rest and crawled toward a clump of tall grass. Hidden from the guards on the pier, I struggled to catch my breath. Resting a moment, I watched the men in the speedboat haul a body aboard. What was left of Karl Friedman, no doubt.