“Poison!” Pa spat out the word with contempt and disgust.
“I poured it into a bottle and I wrapped the cat in aluminum foil. Let’s see what a lab says. Let’s find out if whatever killed the cat is the kind of stuff that would make Inspector Heller’s death look like a heart attack.”
“You’re really right on top of this thing, Nick.” Pa looked at him as though he were seeing someone new. Pa also had a look on his face that said if they had poisoned Tim instead of shooting him he wouldn’t have had much respect for Tim.
“Well, anyway,” Nick said, “if the lab report checks out, we’ll have to ask for an autopsy on Heller. Maybe we haven’t got much solid evidence now that Fletcher’s deposition and the rifle have disappeared. But we have one helluva newspaper story that could shake any government into reopening an investigation.”
The idea panicked Pa. He almost exploded with passion. “Absolutely not,” he said so loudly that Nick knew he was suddenly frightened. “I’m not going to barter Tim’s place in history with yellow journalism. We’ve had enough government-by-printing-press in this country.” He stared at Nick, breathing heavily. “You’ve got to go out and dig up evidence. Real evidence. You have to do it. No one else can do it, and I’ll have the agency cover you with security men around the clock.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that might just stop somebody from trying to kill me when I’d have the chance to grab him and hang onto him.”
“Then you have to take a gun.”
“No, Pa. I don’t even know how to use a gun.”
“Then will you take a blackjack? You don’t need lessons for that.”
“Okay, I’ll take a blackjack.”
“And brass knuckles. So they stay down when you hit them.”
“Okay, Pa.”
“It’s my fright as much as it is yours.”
“There is plenty to share, Pa.”
“But we have to do it. We can’t take this. I am proud of you, Nick.”
“Don’t get sloppy, Pa.”
“I can’t believe that I once thought you were just another piano player.”
“Pa—what was the agency able to find out about Lieutenant Doty?”
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1974—PHILADELPHIA
Lieutenant Ray Doty was retired from the Philadelphia police department. He raised Cornish hens in Amalauk, New Jersey. He was eight years older than Frank Heller. They had been partners on the force since 1939. They were both rough men. When the new mayor decided he needed a kind of task force to keep organized crime (and other special problems) in line in Philadelphia, he formed the Political Squad. Heller and Doty were it. Heller was the brains, although he put in a lot of rugged muscle too. Doty was the hammer.
Doty was sixty-eight years old when he agreed to meet Nicholas Thirkield in the restaurant of the Barclay Hotel. He was as slight a man as Heller had been thick and tubby. He was tall, skinny-looking, very strong and had bright red skin. He came complete with a cockade of stiff white hair worn in the style identified affectionately by Captain Heller as der Bürstenhaarschnitt. His eyes, much like Captain Heller’s, had all the warmth of two set mousetraps. He smiled a lot, showing his teeth.
Nick and Doty made a memorable lunch of snapper soup, imperial crab and pineapple chiffon pie. They also made small talk.
“Tomorrow is Frank’s funeral,” Doty said. “I can’t believe it. We were partners for thirty-five years.”
“I met Captain Heller briefly,” Nick said. “Seemed like a very nice fellow.”
“Was he on duty?”
“Yes.”
“Then he wasn’t exactly nice. He had a whole different spirit, you might say, when he was on duty. We always had the roughest jobs.”
“I bet.”
“I been running a chicken farm for eight years, and, believe me, I ain’t relaxed yet. Not that I like it. You know—once a cop, always a cop.”
The agency had paid Lieutenant Doty two thousand dollars to talk to Nick, and in the sense that it would probably be his last big contract, he really wanted to give a money’s worth. But in the right way. The safe way. After lunch he took Nick into the manager’s office and frisked him for transmitting/recording devices, then they bundled up in heavy overcoats and went out to sit on a bench in the sun in Rittenhouse Square. There was no one nearer to them than sixty feet. There were no leaves on trees to conceal parabolic mikes.
“Did the Philadelphia police set up my brother to be killed?” Nick asked.
“Set him up, yes. Cover, yes. But we had nothing to do with the killing.”
“Who paid you?”
“I don’t know. They paid Frank, and Frank paid me. Frank said the less I knew about that the better—and he was right, of course.”
“You never knew anybody from their side?”
“I knew, yeah. One time—well, like a couple of times—we used my chicken ranch for meetings, because nobody could find it to bug it. It was always the same guy. A plump little guy with a bartender’s haircut. Short. Talked like a cowboy.”
“But I mean—how did they come to you? I mean, a stranger can’t walk into the police department and ask them to cushion the murder of the President.”
“Well, look—first it wasn’t the police department. It was the Political Squad. That was Frank and me and six men working three patrol cars when he needed them. We were in charge of all arrangements after the mayor talked to the advance man, and we had maybe two hundred and seventy cops assigned to us for the detail after that on a big job like a President.”
“How did their man get to you?”
“He didn’t get to us. He got to Joe Diamond. Joe knew everybody in the department and who did what and who took contracts, so the actual work was like all organized through Joe, then Joe called us in to like routine everything and handle the cushion.”
“How? Tell me how it was done,” Nick said.
“Before anybody could get anything done they had to talk it over with Frank. You gotta understand that.”
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 1959—PHILADELPHIA
Captain Heller’s wife’s name was Myrtle. She was a merry-faced woman whose rosy cheeks came from making so many of Mom’s Zimsterne and Schwabenbrötle for her master and her seven children—Hans, Franz, Fritz and Wolfie, and Käthe, Kläre, and Katerina, who were called, naturally, Ku, Klux and Klan in school. In the Philadelphia police department the Heller house was known as Little Germany. The house was in Philadelphia’s Germantown section.
Years before, Captain Heller had trained his non-German wife to set a Swabian table. After years of work with her, he considered that her Flädle were superior to his mother’s, her Schwarzwalder Kartoffelsuppe not yet as good as his mother’s. However, no one, not anyone, could equal her Maultaschen. And she scraped his Spätzle from the board by hand as per the high ruling of the Stuttgart Municipal Restaurant Council. She knew as much about making Spätzle as his grandmother!
At home Captain Heller spoke German to his children, English to his wife. The family drove in three Volkswagens (and on one Honda), one of which Myrtle was intent on borrowing for the evening on behalf of her son Wolfie when she put her head in at the door of Captain Heller’s study, with its ancient, black, enormous furniture, carved and columned, which had been brought from Swabia by Captain Heller’s grandfather eighty-seven years before and which left very little circulating space in the small room. There were only four pictures on the walls of the study: a mezzotint portrait of Richard Wagner by the München Master G. Bocca; a signed photograph of Feldmarschall August von Mackensen at the Heldengedenktag ceremonies with Adolf Hitler; a portrait of the German Crown Prince, and one of General Von Blomberg. There was a fading typewritten record of the statement made that day (dated March 17, 1935) by General Von Blomberg pasted at the bottom of the photograph: “It was the Army, removed from the political conflict, which laid the foundations on which a God-sent architect could build. Then this man came, t
he man who, with his strength of will and spiritual power, prepared for our dissensions the end they deserved and made all good where a whole generation had failed.” The third wall decoration was a small painting of Ernestine Schumann-Heink by Shannon-Philips in the costume for Ortrud in Lohengrin. Beneath it on the wall was an identical portrait of Mme. Schumann-Heink, in seven colors, executed in needlepoint. This was the work of Captain Heller. It had taken him thirty-seven months to complete, working twenty-two stitches to the inch.
“There’s a man at the door,” Myrtle said. “His name is William Casper. And can Wolfie have the car tonight?”
“Ach,” Heller rumbled. “I should have told you he was coming. Do we have schnecken for the coffee?” He did not mind English to his wife in his own house, because he loved her and had forgiven her for having been born of Scottish people in Pittsburgh.
“As commanded,” Myrtle said, “we have the standard minimum of nine schnecken.”
“And fresh coffee?”
“You and your guest will be issued two cups of fresh coffee each, as per regulations of this house. You can sign for them in the morning.”
Heller frowned. He did not understand why she always joked about the coffee and the schnecken. “Send William Casper in,” he ordered.
Myrtle held out her hand. “The keys to the white Volkswagen, please.”
“The white? Why the white? It is the second newest. And I don’t like the way Wolfie steers. He has not smoothness. He is abrupt with the wheel.”
“Wolfie has changed his driving style altogether,” Myrtle said. The captain found the car keys in the drawer and handed them over. “Tell them nobody leaves for their dates until I am finished with this man.”
“They know, Frank. Believe me, they know.” She patted his cheek and left the room. Very shortly afterward William Casper knocked at the door and came in.
“Cappen Heller?”
“Come in, sir. Close the door.” Heller got up from behind the desk, walked to Casper and said, “Put your hands against the wall and lean into them.”
“What the hell for?”
“We have voice prints now. We will make sure you are not wearing a recorder or a transmitter. Then we talk with total security.”
Casper leaned, and Captain Heller frisked him. Then he held a chair for Casper and returned to his own chair behind the desk and started the recorder with his knee. “Coffee is coming. Do you take schnapps with the coffee?”
“What is schnapps?”
“Whiskey.”
“Oh, snaps. Sure, I take a snaps now and then.”
“We will not talk business until the coffee comes.”
“Sure is cold up here.” He saw the instantly offended expression on Heller’s face and quickly amended that. “Not in here. Up here. In Philly.”
Myrtle came in with the loaded-down tray. Captain Heller pulled up a bottle of bourbon from behind him and laced the coffee with it. Myrtle left. As she opened the door, from down the hall and from up the stairs came the voice of Buddy Holly screaming a song of ruined young love, but decently far enough away so that the raw rock sounded pleasant. The coffee smells blended with the whiskey smells and the bouquets of bay rum and witch hazel that rose from Mr. Casper.
“Now we will talk,” Heller announced.
“You seen Diamond?”
“He told me.”
“But you didn’t say you was on.”
“I talk my own money. Nothing is settled until the money is settled. And I am aaalzzo speaking for the share of my partner, Lieutenant Doty.” Within otherwise wholly native American speech, which had been formed in Dover, New Jersey, Captain Heller always pronounced the word as “aaalzzo,” one of his few lapses (in speech habits).
“We want to buy your experience, Cappen.”
“And my protection.”
“Thass right.”
“One thing must be clear. Everything must be done only from my plan. From the plan I will lay out.”
“Well, sure.”
Heller grunted. He could grunt like a Westphalian blue-ribbon boar weighing in at maybe three hundred and twelve kilos. He sipped coffee. “How much?” he asked.
“Remember, when I give you a figure, it is cash.”
“Did you think a thing like this could go on the American Express?”
“My boss will go all the way to twelve thousand, five hundred.”
“Then forget it.”
“That is a big piece of money for a morning’s work.”
“A morning’s work? How long do you think they take to hang you, my friend? How long it takes for the rope to break your neck, that is only how long is the work that goes into this.”
“Well—I don’t know—I might be able to get an okay for twenty thousand.”
“I will now tell you what you will pay. Fifty thousand. Try the schnecken.” He pushed the plate toward Casper. “My wife makes them herself. You will faint, it is so delicious.”
“I ain’t much of a sweet tooth,” Casper said, breaking a schnecke into three pieces and tasting one of them. “God damn,” he said with delight. “Man, that is good!” Having gone through enough of the motions of driving a hard bargain, Casper was no longer interested in pretending to haggle. The price had been set. “Okay, Cappen, fifty thousand.”
“Half now.”
Mr. Casper took a large brown manila envelope out of his side pocket. He took a sheaf of banknotes out of it and counted out twenty-five thousand dollars slowly in one-thousand-dollar bills. His lips moved silently. He pushed the money across the table to the captain, who recounted it rapidly, opened the top drawer of his desk, dropped the money in and locked the drawer.
“When does he come to Philadelphia?” he asked.
“Washin’ton’s birthday. Two-two Feb. Gives us about eleven weeks. Say—how does she make these buns?”
“The pure, sweetened yeast dough is sprinkled with cinnamon, chopped walnuts, raisins, citron, and a sugar sheet, then rolled into snail shapes and baked in brown sugar and honey.” He was very pleased that Casper had asked the question. “You mean his own people are setting him up?”
“Well, we gotta get him here, don’t we?”
“I will see Joe tonight.”
“Then that’s all, then.” Casper stood up.
“Please pay the second half of the money, into my hand, in this house, on the morning of the day the work is going to be done. Or nothing happens.”
“Fair enough.”
Heller escorted Casper to the front door and helped him on with his coat. They shook hands. Casper left. Heller turned into the house as a patrol car rounded a corner to drive sedately and at a discreet distance behind Mr. Casper’s car.
“Wolfie!” Captain Heller bellowed. A young man of nineteen appeared instantly from a room off the hall. “Ja, Poppa?”
“Where are you going tonight?”
“I am taking the girls to the Bingo,” he said in German.
“Of course. You want the car to help your sisters. Where will you go with it when you leave them off?”
“I have a date. With Harriet Wilmerding.”
“A good family. But, aaalzzo the Volkswagen is from a good family.”
“Yes, Poppa.”
“Take care!” his father barked.
Captain Heller marched past his son into the parlor, where his sons and daughters were waiting in two rows. He glared at them over the great pouches of blackness under his eyes, because the girls had their hats on. “All right!” he said in German in a parade-ground voice. “It is Saturday night. You have done good work all week, and now you play.” They all smiled. “But there is bad weather out there tonight, so you must take care. Tonight the girls will return at eleven fifteen.” The girls groaned. “Fritz and Wolfie will come home at twelve thirty. Hans and Franz at one o’clock. Remember! I will be waiting.”
He stood at the door, kissed each one as they went past and gave each one a secret sum of money. After they had gone he settled down
with Myrtle in the crowded study and concentrated on his needlepoint. At twenty minutes to eleven he said that Doty would arrive to pick him up in six minutes.
“Will you be late?”
“I will be home at twelve twenty.”
“If you are having a good time,” she said, smiling, “make it twelve twenty-two. Just give a shout as you cross the threshold so I can set the clocks by you.”
He drew a chair close to her and kissed her ear. “Why are you always making fun of me?” he whispered.
“Because it gives you tremendous pleasure.”
“You know too much,” he said with a heavy German accent. He kissed her ear again.
***
Captain Heller came out of his house the moment Lieutenant Doty sounded his horn. They sat in the car while Heller counted out eight one-thousand-dollar bills and gave them to Doty. They were wearing civilian clothes.
“You owe me five hundred dollars change,” Heller said. “He paid twenty-five up front. I get fifteen. You get seventy-five hundred. Then four hundred apiece for the patrol-car boys—it cheats them out of about sixteen bucks apiece but maybe you’ll need it for your chickens.”
“That’s sure as hell great with me,” Doty said.
“You are sure that’s okay? You think that is eminently fair?”
“One hundred percent, Frank.”
“Good. Aaalzzo there is another twenty-five due when the show gets to town.”
“Same split?”
“Correct.”
“Sensational.”
“Now we go to Diamond’s saloon.”
Doty moved the black police car downtown.
***
Joe Diamond’s saloon was called the Casino Latino. It had a big barroom in front. Behind that was a smaller room that Diamond called the nightclub. It was very dark in there. A piano played all the time. Out at the center of the bulked tobacco smoke four girls took turns stripping every now and then. When they had finished they went back to sit with the customers. Joe kept a king-sized mattress on the floor in a pantry behind the kitchen for any cop who wanted to get laid. But only cops. He wasn’t running any joint. Most of the cops preferred to stay in the big lighted barroom. It was both a club and a bourse for the Philadelphia police. It was the favorite club, because policemen known to Joe (which was 86.3 percent of the entire force) got a check for only every second round of drinks.
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