by James Thayer
The truck's passenger was not accounted for. Von Stihl dropped to all fours to look under the truck. The man's legs pumped wildly as he cleared the truck and broke down Ridgeland, running away from the massacre. The bald man ran like a halfback, zigzagging and low, to make himself a difficult target. Graf ran to the tail end of the truck and let loose a burst, but the bullets kicked up sparks from the concrete behind the runner.
Von Stihl yelled, "Lange, down the street."
Willi Lange stood from behind the hedge and lined his weapon on the bald man running madly down the middle of the street like a fool. Why didn't he take cover and give himself a chance? Lange thought. Lange's Schmeisser spit an economical half-second burst. A block away, roses of blood bloomed and quickly crawled up the runner's back. He pitched forward and was dead before his body slid to a stop.
Mesmerized by the swift violence, Paddy Flannery stood by the Cadillac and watched the carnage. When the bald runner's back sieved blood, Flannery gripped the Cadillac's fender for support. He was dizzy with his involvement and its ramifications. The Irishman's last thought before Hans Graf turned to him was: I'm going to die a traitor.
Graf's hard, taunting voice reached him. "So long, mick."
Not until the SS Obersturmführer saw Flannery had focused on his face did he let loose the rest of his clip. The submachine gun squirmed in Graf's hand. Flannery felt an odd, empty, painless bloating in his chest. The Irishman's eyes closed forever as his body sank to a sitting position on the Cadillac's running board.
Von Stihl had an almost mystical faith in Lange's ability with a Schmeisser, so without looking at the fate of the bald runner he opened the driver's side door of the truck. Sharp pieces of shattered glass fell from the door frame and scattered on the ground. The colonel grabbed the dead driver's belt and hauled him from the cab. The body bounced off the running board to the street. Von Stihl swept blood and glass from the seat, climbed in, and turned the engine over. Willi Lange hurriedly got into the truck from the passenger side and slid to the middle, to make way for Graf. The truck jumped forward, swerved around the punctured escort car, and headed south on Ridgeland Street.
Over the roar of his motorcycle engine, Patrolman Bates heard the unfamiliar staccato pounding of automatic weapons. He turned onto Ridgeland a block south of the ambush in time to see the dynamite truck pull away from the curb and wind around the riddled Chevy. It rapidly gained speed. Good God, what a mess, thought Bates as he cranked back on the accelerator and the Harley screamed toward the oncoming truck. Were those bodies? A traffic accident? What's that guy doing sitting on the Caddy's running board? Hell, he's dead. Holy damn, there's more dead bodies. And those bastards in the truck must be trying to get away.
With the truck bearing down on him, Bates jerked back on his handlebars and threw his weight to his right, putting his cycle into a sideways slide toward the approaching truck. Afraid the truck's tires would not survive a trip over the careening motorcycle, von Stihl stomped on the brakes. The patrolman rolled to his feet with his service revolver already drawn, ran to the truck window, and yelled up at von Stihl, "You're all under arrest. Get out of the truck." He thrust his pistol through the window so its blunt nose was six inches from the colonel's face.
Calmly, deliberately, von Stihl said, "Officer, if you turn around and walk away, you'll live. If not, your life ends here."
"Get out of that fucking truck before I blow your head off," Bates bellowed as he shook his gun at the German.
Von Stihl said one word, "Lange."
Willi Lange fired his Schmeisser across von Stihl's lap. The stream of bullets ripped through the truck's door and tore into the patrolman's chest. The cop dropped out of sight. Von Stihl backed the truck up several yards, swerved around the motorcycle, and drove down the street.
Only two minutes had passed since the Ridgeland Street massacre had begun. Two damaged cars, a police motorcycle, and seven bodies littered the street. The old cat owner picked up her phone to dial the police again.
XIV
THAT PATROLMAN FRANK BATES, whose body resembled a cheese grater, lived for four hours after the ambush was a miracle. He was rushed to Cook County Hospital, where Dr. Felix Rinder, chief of surgery and professor of medicine at Northwestern University School of Medicine, personally took charge of the policeman's care. An hour after Bates arrived at the emergency entrance, the hospital announced he had used forty pints of blood and their reserves were dangerously low. An emergency call for blood donors went out to all police precincts.
The response was heartwarming and, at least to Dr. Rinder, predictable. Uniformed cops soon filled every available space at the hospital, while nurses extracted a pint of blood from each. Even the dental clinic's chairs and the waiting-room chairs were filled by Chicago policemen with their sleeves rolled up. Queues of cops waited near each chair and bed to give blood to fellow officer Bates. Nurses drew blood from five cops at a time, rushing back and forth with needles, empty bottles, and cotton swabs. Medical students trotted over from the school to assist. A few officers would not take the nurses' word that they could donate only one pint, and had to be told the limit by the supervising physician. The streets outside the hospital were clogged with police cars and motorcycles as their drivers took fifteen minutes from their schedules to try to save Patrolman Bates's life.
By two o'clock that afternoon, 438 policemen had donated. The hospital had more blood than it could use in a week. Dr. Rinder rubbed his hands together with glee. What difference did it make that Bates had actually died the instant he was gunned down and that the bulletin about the policeman clinging to life in dire need of blood was a fabrication? For a week the hospital would not have to plead with a squeamish public to donate. At 2:30 the hospital announced that despite the efforts of the finest surgeons in the Midwest, Patrolman Frank Bates had succumbed to his injuries.
Von Stihl and his men had made their first mistake. All Chicago's criminal element, the professional underworld, the teenage street gangs, small-time burglars and muggers, torches, whiz mobs, pimps, and pushers, all knew the most important rule of survival in Chicago. It was obeyed above all other criminal mores. Gangsters served time rather than violate it. Addicts lost a week's fix rather than break it. The maxim was pounded into street urchins the day they joined a gang. It was the ultimate rule of survival, and it was simple: Never, ever, kill a Chicago cop.
Within thirty minutes of the Ridgeland Street massacre, the policemen of Chicago knew two things about the killing: motorcycle patrolman Frank Bates had been hit, and an Irish hoodlum was involved. The Chicago police force went to the streets. Cops on leave showed up to put in overtime. Others worked two shifts that day, their paid shift and a voluntary one. Arson and homicide detectives dropped their cases. Traffic cops left their posts. Retired policemen asked for special duty. Cops who had phoned in sick that day were cured and reported to their precinct stations. Their purpose: to find Bates's killer and save the courts a trial.
Chicago's outlaw underbelly paid dearly for Frank Bates's death. Their regular and generous grease meant nothing. Gang members across Chicago were rousted from their homes and clubs and taken downtown. Many suffered unfortunate bruises on the way, which on official reports were attributed to accidents on stairways. Much like a Marx Brothers movie, groups of three and four hoodlums fell down stairs simultaneously, despite their police protection en route to the stations. Gangster Mickey O'Brien broke his nose while in custody. The policeman wrote on the report, "Suspect struck arresting officer's fist with his nose."
Policy depots were raided. Underworld gambling casinos were invaded and their equipment destroyed. The Twenty-second Street precinct headquarters had so many mob hookers waiting to be booked that a street vendor made a week's profit selling them hot dogs. A Department of Health official and two policemen arrived at a mob-owned restaurant on Wabash Street and closed it for having an unsanitary kitchen. Diners were forced to leave their tables in mid-bite. A gangster-controlled garbag
e company's garage in Cicero was closed with police padlocks so that the eight trucks within could be used as evidence in a possible future trial resulting from a possible future arrest. The streets dried up. Underworld patrons screamed at their aldermen but were told nothing could stop the purge.
Each collared hoodlum was asked about the massacre. Asked and re-asked, with force. No one knew anything. Gang leaders, seeing their operations shrink like a slug dosed with salt, also began asking questions. Who hit the truck on Ridgeland Street? Who burned the cop? They wanted the hijackers as much as the police did. No one knew anything.
Everette Smithson paced nervously in front of the Metallurgical Laboratory. Wind blew briskly along Ellis Avenue, and a few students scurried along, their faces buried in scarves and collars. Despite the wind, Smithson's substantial bulk was sweating.
Chicago was his protectorate. For two years it had suffered fewer incidents of suspected sabotage than any other area in the country. This record was the job security Smithson needed, because he knew this job would be the last stop of his career.
Smithson had been a career army officer who retired in 1939 after twenty-five years, most of which time was served as a perimeter security officer at various bases. He had ended his army years as a major and chief of security at Fort Lewis. Because forty-five was too young to retire, he had applied to the Department of War for a job in his field. Shortly thereafter he was contacted by Richard Sackville-West, the head of a government organization Smithson had never heard of, and asked to move to Chicago to join the agency's antisabotage division.
"Division" was a misnomer. Smithson was the division, the only man assigned to investigate suspected sabotage in the Chicago area, which included the city, its suburbs, and, unfortunately, Gary, Indiana. It was a comfortable, secure position. Once a week he reported via coded telegram to Sackville-West in Washington. Most were single sentences announcing that no instances of suspected sabotage had occurred. Occasionally Smithson would investigate a suspicious industrial breakdown, which he usually concluded was the work of a dissatisfied employee. His job had a routineness he enjoyed and a title he was proud of.
Now this. The dynamite hijacking occurred at 9:30 that morning. He had followed the police investigation closely, and by noon they still had no hard evidence to back their belief it was a gangland hit. When the police chief told him of the one startling fact that pointed to sabotage, Smithson had phoned Sackville-West, reviewed the evidence, and asked for assistance. Smithson was not surprised when his boss suggested John Crown help. Crown was already in Chicago, and his duties guarding Hess occupied only his mornings. Sackville-West wanted a full report in two days. And he wanted that dynamite accounted for.
Smithson clasped his hands behind his back and once again peered at the laboratory front door. The interviews usually didn't last this long. Hess's mind always fell apart before the noon hour. What was keeping them? He wanted to enter the building to deliver the Priest's message to Crown, but knew he could not. Nor was he allowed in Hess's presence. Smithson resumed his pacing.
A short, thick-set man wearing a charcoal trench coat and carrying a maroon blanket over his arm approached Smithson. The man had a strong jaw and a metal cast to his eyes. He paused in front of Smithson.
"Say, pal, got the time?"
"Sure," Smithson said as he glanced at his wristwatch, "it's twelve-twenty."
"You waiting for somebody?"
Smithson realized who the man was. He jerked his billfold from his pocket and held the ID up to the man. "I'm here on business," Smithson said impatiently.
"I'm sorry, sir, but your clearance isn't sufficient to enter the building."
"I'm well aware of that," Smithson replied, his heavy jowls flapping as his impatience turned to anger. "I'll wait right here."
"Yes, sir. No offense meant, but you'll be watched while you're here."
"I assumed that. When'll today's interview be over?"
The guard smiled. "What interview? Neither you nor I are aware of any interview."
"Shit," Smithson exclaimed as he looked at the lab entrance again. "You'd think that . . . "
A black Chevrolet pulled to the curb. Its passenger jumped out and opened the rear door. Two plainclothes guards emerged from the Metallurgical Lab. One immediately approached Smithson and asked if he would leave the area. When Smithson again flashed his ID, the guard became polite, but no less insistent.
"You tell Crown that Everette Smithson wants to see him. I'll be standing at the end of the building. Tell him our boss has some orders for him, and they're urgent." Smithson could not keep his irritation at not being in full command of the Chicago operation out of his voice.
From a hundred feet away, Smithson saw Crown, accompanied by a tall, black-haired man Smithson assumed was Rudolf Hess, emerge from the building. Hess slipped quickly into the back seat of the Chevrolet, and a guard followed him in. The man with the blanket folded over his gun-wielding arm spoke a few words to Crown. Crown glanced toward Smithson, thanked the guard, and walked the distance to the Chicago agent. With the students and plainclothes guards, Ellis Avenue was an unlikely spot for a setup, but Crown's eyes scanned passing automobiles and building tops.
He smiled briefly as he held out his hand to the corpulent agent. "Good to see you again, Everette." Crown's eyes kept searching, never stopping. If Smithson noticed Crown's jerking eyes, he didn't mention it.
"Likewise. I understand from the boss you did a fine job getting your charge out of England." Smithson nodded his head rapidly as he spoke, and his bulbous double chin bloated and deflated like a croaking bull frog.
"Not much problem with it," Crown replied, and paused, letting Smithson know the amenities were over.
"Well," Smithson said, rubbing his hands with the relish of one about to impart important news, "you've heard about the hijacking?"
"What hijacking?"
"No, of course you haven't. You've been with your guest all morning." Smithson quickly filled Crown in on the Ridgeland Street massacre. "The Priest thinks it's sabotage, so he wants you to help me out here," he concluded apologetically. "You'll hear why we think it's sabotage when we get there and talk to an old lady."
"Did he say anything about the other concerns I might have?" Crown asked testily.
"Only that you can work them in with helping me investigate."
There was only one reason the Priest would order Crown to get involved with this mess. He believed it was connected with Hess and with Maura's death. Crown looked over his shoulder. Peter Kohler stood next to the Chevrolet, checking his watch, anxious to get Hess off the street. Heather and Hess were visible through the rear window.
"All right," Crown said. "Meet me at the EDC house in fifteen minutes. I'll have our guest secured by then."
Smithson used the drive to relay facts of the hijacking as summarized by early police reports. They arrived at the site at 1:45. A four-block area had been cordoned off. Crown counted a dozen police cars with flashing lights near the scene and guessed most of the others were unmarked police cars. The bodies had been removed. White paint silhouetted where they had fallen on the concrete. The motorcycle and two damaged cars had not been moved. The pools of blood were still damp. Bent over one red puddle was a white-coated police lab technician putting samples on thin glass slides. Perhaps twenty uniformed and plainclothes officers worked in the vicinity. A police photographer busily snapped pictures of the scene. An army of reporters was kept at bay by a circle of policemen. Smithson and Crown struggled to the police line, assisted greatly by the obese Chicago agent's low center of gravity. Smithson showed his ID and they passed through the line. Aching tension ebbed from Crown as if he had sunk into a hot bath. In this crowd of policemen, he was safe.
"John, this's Lieutenant Michael Sullivan, who's in charge of the police investigation."
Sullivan was on his knees between the two bullet-scarred cars, carefully inspecting the point of impact. He thrust his powerful hand up at Crown. "Gla
d to know ya," he said cursorily, and resumed his study. His gray-brown hair was cut extremely close, perhaps to disguise its sparsity. Sullivan's neck was drill-instructor thick, and under a threadbare raincoat his shoulders sloped like a linebacker's. Only his belly had aged, bloated with beer over the years. The pencil Sullivan used to jot down his discoveries looked ridiculously small in his hand.
"Crown's from our office. He's here to lend a hand."
Sullivan looked up. "Then you'd be wanting to talk to the old lady."
"I want him to hear it firsthand," Smithson said. "Can the three of us talk to her?"
"You won't catch me in that house again. I get enough of the mother types on weekends," Sullivan said, shaking his head and resuming his inch-by-inch survey of the collision. "But you're welcome to talk to her. The gray house." He flipped his thumb, indicating the house with the large elm tree in its front yard.
The door to the home was open before Smithson and Crown had climbed the half-dozen steps to the porch. A silver-gray cat leaped through the door, shot down the steps, and disappeared around the side of the house.
"Oh, that old cat," said an ancient voice on the other side of the screen. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty." She made a series of clucking sounds, apparently imitating a chipmunk. "Oh, well, he always comes back. Come in, gentlemen, come in. Don't stand out there in the cold."
The woman was in her late seventies, with a face that had retained its soft prettiness. Her hair was startlingly white and was pulled back into a bun. She wore a light green print dress with a matching sash around her waist. It was Sunday wear donned to honor the occasion of visitors.