by Mick Bose
Tunney got up and poured himself two measures of whiskey. He slurped the glass quickly. Aoife was gone. She would never come back. Did he have any regrets?
Yes, he did.
He wished he had more money. He wished he could buy an automobile and go riding down Fifth Avenue with her on Sundays. But in the end, he realized Aoife never liked what he did for a living. To her, police work was a dead end, bum job with no prospects. To Tunney it was life and death, a fascinating, massive jigsaw that puzzled and eluded him all day. His heart belonged in the streets. He couldn’t live without it.
Tunney drained the glass and poured himself another. He sat in the bay window. His neighbors were returning from their evening stroll in the park. They were past middle age, a couple without any children. They saw Tunney and waved. Tunney waved back. The summer breeze played with his hair as he sipped at his whiskey. No, in a way, there was no time for regrets. Aoife made her choice, and in the end, so did he. She had her life to return to, and he had his. And yet… he missed her. Her laughter, her chatter, the sunshine she spread in the dim, dusty corners of his heart. He stared at the amber liquid in the glass.
His thoughts turned back to the present. He would visit the morgue tomorrow and speak to the doctor doing the autopsy. He should have gone in the afternoon, but had another meeting concerning two suspected bombers. Tunney complained they needed more men on the ground, and he felt again his voice fell on deaf ears. Money for budgets was in short supply while the war was going on. Tunney finished his drink and went to the kitchen to warm up last night`s left-over dinner.
*****
Doctor Patterson pushed his surgical mask down and put the scalpel on the instrument tray. The bright lights illuminated the few gray hairs on the doctor`s scalp and, Tunney noted with distaste, the black hairs sprouting from his nostrils. He diverted his gaze to the dissected corpse.
“Well, Major Tunney, what would you like to know?” Dr Patterson still had the Scottish twang in his voice, Tunney noted with amusement. He thought the doctor had been in New York long enough to lose it. Evidently not. As a second-generation immigrant from County Cork, in the southern tip of Ireland, he founding that charming and faintly embarrassing in equal measure.
Tunney glanced at the doctor, then at the remains of Dr Klinsmann. He wanted the chemistry reports from the tissue and the bacterial culture, and the histology of the organs. It wasn’t easy getting a post mortem and he’d spent an afternoon filling out forms. Doctors were scarce with the war. Fortunately, for the moment, Tunney was more interested in the trauma. He pointed to the almost severed face and neck.
“What caused that?”
Dr Patterson frowned. “I’m not a weapons expert, Major. But I would say something heavy and extremely sharp.”
“Why?”
“The muscles and the blood vessels don’t show any serrated edges. It was a clean strike—a cleaving blow, if you like. For a weapon to have that effect, it has to be heavy. Otherwise the killer would be sawing away.”
“A sword?”
“A very heavy sword, but…”
“But what?”
“The jaw bone isn’t broken. Which means the killer had time to slip it behind the jaw bone and almost chop it off.”
“Like a machete, you mean?”
Dr Patterson stared at him. Tunney said, “Like they use in the jungles. They hack at bushes to clear paths and so on.”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, possible. But it would still have to be a heavy one.”
“Or a heavy hand using it.”
The doctor nodded again. “Yes, that too is possible.”
“Anything else?”
“There are no injuries in the bones of the hand. No blunt or sharp indentations in the rest of the body. Which means the victim didn’t resist.”
Tunney made some notes. The doctor moved down the body. “His lungs indicate he was a smoker. Normal food residue in his stomach. From his fingertips we isolated some chemical. Microscopy showed it to be TNT, the explosive.”
Tunney kept scribbling. “Yes, we expected that. He was a chemist. He worked for De Lund chemical factories. He bought a large amount of Toluene and had a chemical laboratory. We have eyes on every chemical plant near the city now. Since the last explosions in New York, we’re keeping a close watch on whoever has the capability to make TNT.”
“I see.”
“Anything else, doctor?”
“Not for now, Major Tunney. I’ll call you, if the cultures or histology shows something interesting.”
*****
Clouds marched over the sky and the wind picked up in the evening. Tunney shivered in his light jacket as he crouched between Inspector Chris Corell and Sergeant Lindquist.
The three of them were sat well behind an open window, looking out to the house opposite on a street near the harbor in Hoboken. Sergeant Lindquist was using a telescope. The streetlights had come on, and a light glowed in a room on the first floor. The room the officers were in was dark. The house was derelict and the plumbing didn’t work. Tunney rubbed his hands together.
“What`s the news, Chris?” Tunney asked.
“There`s two of them in there,” Corell pointed. The curtains were drawn, but two figures could be seen moving around.
“The watchmaker and his assistant?”
Corell nodded. “They left their shop in the morning and headed out to Long Island. We lost them there.”
Tunney stared at his colleague. Lindquist noticed the look and spoke up. “They know we’re following them. Somehow, they know. They managed to give us the slip.”
“Alright,” Tunney said. “I’ve got some news about our dead doctor.” He filled them in about his meeting with Dr Patterson.
Corell whistled. “A machete?”
“Or a similar weapon.”
Corell`s eyes were shining. “This is getting interesting.” Tunney suppressed a smile. Corell`s enthusiasm was well known. He spoke fluent German and had infiltrated the gang of dockside men who planted bombs in ships carrying ammunition to the Allies in Europe. The gang had been caught and one of them tipped off the NYPD Bomb Disposal Team to the two men under surveillance. A watchmaker, Mr Kiezle, who manufactured timed detonators, and his assistant, Hans Skooner. This in turn led them to a nitrate expert called Klinsmann.
Tunney said, “Colonel Walsingham will want a report soon about these two. What do think happened in Long Island?”
“We followed them for three days,” Corell said, reluctantly. “But we lost them after East Hampton.”
“Nothing in Sayville?”
Corell and Lindquist both shook their heads. Sayville, a coastal town, was the site of the largest wireless radio station in the USA. The station had been built by Telefunken, a German company. Since 1916, US Marines ran the station.
“Makes sense none of the Huns are there,” Tunney said. “The place is crawling with our boys.”
“I spoke to some of the local people in East Hampton,” Corell said. “You know, some of the Germans.”
“Good. Anything?”
“Yes. One of the old ladies who runs the German café near the water spoke of three young men coming for lunch. She’d never seen them before. One of them had a suitcase.”
All three were quiet for a while. Lindquist put his eye to the telescope.
Corell asked Tunney, “We’re still looking for another radio station on the coast, aren’t we?”
Tunney nodded. “We intercept wireless messages from the east coast. The British have broken the code again, as you know, so we can read them. But finding the station is much more difficult now.”
“There’s probably more than one.”
“Yes.”
“And probably smaller outfits. More mobile. They send out small messages and reduce air time, so it`s much harder for us to track them down.”
“They certainly move around.” Tunney was frowning now.
Corell said, “A wireless system can be packed in a large suitcase.
You only need two electric connections.”
The two men stared at each other. Tunney reached for his cap.
“Good work, Corell. I want you to stay here, and I’ll go to East Hampton. I need to speak to Colonel Walsingham, and then I’ll call you.”
*****
An hour later, Tunney was sitting in Nicholas Walsingham`s temporary office in downtown. Borrowed from the 16th Precinct, the office was small and cramped, with a wooden table and two chairs. The NYPD wasn’t thrilled to be handing over its precious office space to the Army, but there was a war on and Thomas Tunney, one of their own, had requested it.
Nicholas Walsingham was a thin individual who seemed to sleep and live in his uniform. In his late fifties, he had seen a relatively quiet career in the National Guard and then the US Army. He knew the importance of espionage in warfare. He’d almost singlehandedly supported Tunney when he wanted help dealing with the Black Hand anarchists and the German saboteurs. That support led to the formation of the MID. Five hand-picked men, a small organization in a big country, new to global warfare.
Tunney sat down heavily. Not one hair on Walsingham`s head was out of place, and he was freshly shaven. Tunney felt run ragged himself, trying to keep all the plates spinning in the air.
“We got something new today,” Walsingham announced in his quiet voice. Tunney waited. “As we’re officially the Army Intelligence wing,” Walsingham smirked, and Tunney allowed him a small smile. “They told me about a break-in and murder at a top-secret location. In Washington.”
Tunney shrugged, showing his incomprehension.
“It`s so damned top secret they won’t even tell me what it’s for. All I know is that it’s heavily guarded, but someone managed to break into its secure facilities.”
“Facilities?”
“I did some off-the-book enquiries with my friends in Washington. Apparently, the Chemical Warfare Division has leased ninety acres of land from the American University. For the last year, they’ve been doing secret research in laboratories built on site.”
Tunney whistled. “You mean stuff like mustard gas? The Boche used them in Ypres in 1915, didn’t they?”
Walsingham nodded. “I don’t know any particulars about the break-in. No one seems to know, apparently. But there was a murder as well.”
Tunney leaned forward, interested. Walsingham peered into the file on his desk. “A body was found underneath a bed in the Best Welcome Hotel in Washington, close to Union Station. Deceased’s name was Miss Jocelyn Flexman. She was the secretary to Professor Carlson, the head of the university’s Chemistry Department—the same department taken over by Chemical Warfare. She was married, in fact, but used her maiden name at work.”
“How was she killed?”
“A brutal injury. Her neck and windpipe were almost chopped from her body.”
“So the secret site was broken into and this woman, who happened to work there, was killed?”
“Precisely.”
“Let me guess. We would like to think the murderer was also the intruder into the site. Right?”
“Correct,” said Walsingham.
“But why murder the woman? Did she have access to important files? Did she have—” Tunney stopped.
Walsingham said, “Yes, all of the above. She handled top secret documents. She also had keys to enter the main office. I doubt however, she would have keys to the site, but given how our so-called secure units operate, not much would surprise me.”
“What about the husband? Did he work there?”
“No.”
“Is the husband a suspect?”
“Yes, but not a good one. Their marriage was cooling, it seems. But a neighbor saw him going into the house. No one saw him come out. His bed looked slept in. His car was in the garage as well. The victim, on the other hand, went to see a man in that hotel room. It was the second time she’d visited. She stayed the night before as well. The hotel staff recognized her photo. She signed the guestbook with her maiden name.”
“Crime of passion?”
“Homicide is not my forte, as you know, Thomas. This is where you come in.”
“So this man is our main suspect. What does the hotel registration show?”
“A man called Jeff Hurst. From New York, as it happens. Gave a bogus address of somewhere in the Bronx. Doesn’t exist. Booked the hotel on July 14, checked out on July 17.”
“When was the body found?”
“That evening, by the cleaner.”
Tunney was thinking to himself, his fist bunched and nudging his lip. “Do we have a description of the suspect?”
“Yes. Tall and broad-shouldered. Wore a light summer jacket, big hat and black-rimmed glasses.”
Tunney said, “There must be hundreds of Jeff Hursts in New York. To start, we can make a list from the State Department birth certificates of the ones either born in New York or working here. In fact, cast the net wider. This man could be from anywhere.”
“I agree. Maybe New Jersey and DC as well.”
“Mother of Mary. That’s a whole lot of Jeff Hursts.”
Walsingham put his elbows on the desk. “The Army top brass are hot under the collar about this. They want to know what`s going on. I need you to head down there.”
“Alright, but we need more men. While I’m there, someone here has to be checking on the different Jeff Hursts, calling them, or going to see them. We need to find out which Jeff Hurst got a ticket for DC for July 14.”
Walsingham groaned. “Jesus Christ.”
Tunney nodded. “A needle in a haystack. But it can be done. We need to get onto the State Department soon. Not just for the birth certificates, but also passports and passport applications. If this man is leaving the country, we need to know. You could make a call for that, sir.”
“I’ll call the State Department and get them checking the certificates and passports. Anything else?”
“I’ll look at the train timetables and see which one was likely to arrive at DC in the morning. The ticket office should have a name list. Then I think we need four men. One checking the birth and death certificates, one for the voter`s register, one checking all the addresses in New York for starters, and the last one—which should be the easiest—the criminal records and reported crimes register.”
CHAPTER 12
Berlin
July 1918
General Paul von Hindenburg glanced through the car window at the buildings and people flashing by. The Daimler Benz purred as the engine picked up pace. Hindenburg patted his luxurious moustache, the defining emblem of authority and aristocracy. It swept under his nose to the sides of his ears like the handlebars of a motorcycle.
“Drive through Friedrichstrasse and Unter del Linden”, he instructed the driver.
The driver looked at the rear view mirror. “It will be crowded, sir and we’re going to the Admiralstab.”
Hindenburg glared back.
A hint of panic spread over the chauffeur`s face. “As you wish, sir.”
Hindenburg settled back in his seat as the car drove through two squares of Freidrichstrasse, close to the Berlin Banhof. The street was so narrow that people walked on the road. Many wore the field grey of the army and stepped aside as they recognized the flagged service car. Returning soldiers were kissing their loved ones. On the congested pavement, coffee shops and Red Cross lottery stands vied for space. For two marks you could buy a lottery ticket.
Hindenburg looked at the soldiers and grunted. He liked seeing the common man`s mood and judge the nation`s temper for himself. He was a soldier first and foremost, yes. But no ordinary soldier, he was the Generalfeldmarschall. He wasn’t only the ruler of the Army, but with his deputy, Erich Ludendorff, he now told the Reichstag what to do as well. Which meant he and Ludendorff controlled Germany.
Good. It was the way it should have been from the beginning. He was certain the war would have been far shorter, if instead of Falkenhayen, he’d been Chief of Army Staff in 1914. The Second Reich`s
flag would be flying from the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame by now.
Briefly, he thought of the Kaiser. Hindenburg was an arch conservative and immensely proud of his aristocratic roots, and supportive of the monarchy. But Kaiser Wilhelm II was emotional, judgmental and sensitive. He went into this war—a justifiable war, according to Hindenburg—without realizing wars are won outside the battlefield, not on them.
Anyway, that was history now. The Kaiser was isolated and had delegated all power to him. He, Paul Ludwig Hans Anton von Beneckendorff und von Hindenburg, was in charge, just like his ancient Royal Habsburg forefathers had been.
The car entered the Unter del Linden and smoothly accelerated. Unter del Linden was a wider avenue and the fashionable Broadway of Berlin.
The car turned left at the Tiergartenstrasse, the avenue running through the Tiergarten, the great park of Berlin. People were milling around on the paths winding through the verdant green trees. Hindenburg lowered his window, the air smelled fresh and clean here. At the end of the park stood the arched gate of the Brandenburg Tor. Four galloping bronze horses were carved on atop the arch, horses that were stolen by Napoleon, but then brought back by the Imperial Army in 1871. The car banked left from Wilhelmstrasse, and finally straight up the Vossstrasse to the Admiralstab, or Admiralty Building.
The Foot Platoon clicked their heels and saluted as Hindenburg went briskly up the stairs. He tried to disguise his puffing, it wasn’t easy with his weight and heavy uniform. He strode in through the wide double doors. Lieutenant Colonel Junker, commander of the Fifth Army, was waiting for him. They shook hands then went to the drawing room on the first floor.
Two men were waiting. Deputy Field Marshall Erich Ludendorff, his longtime colleague and the true architect of his military victories, saluted briefly, and Hindenburg nodded. Erich appeared calm, Hindenburg noted, normally a good sign. Maybe he had good news. Colonel Walter Nicolai, the spymaster and head of the military intelligence wing, Abteilung 3b, came up to shake his hand. A tall, thin man, Colonel Nicolai had a good rapport with Hindenburg, who helped Colonel Nicolai build up the military intelligence wing despite the Kaiser`s reticence. The four men sat down and everyone apart from Hindenburg lit up cigars.