by Mick Bose
Not this time. Tunney hadn’t been there. Wearily, he lifted himself to his feet. The walls shook suddenly and he felt dizzy. The smell of blood and death permeated the room, seeping into his bones. He thought of the moment he would have to knock on Corell`s front door. It was cream-coloured. Teak wood. Nice house in suburbia, north of the Bronx, south of New Rochelle in Westchester County. His wife Jeanie would open the door, the two children would be inside.
A throbbing pulse was hurting his skull. Tunney pushed his way outside to the street. He breathed in the dusty industrial air of Hoboken deeply, filling his lungs with the faint sea smell, and the grit from the ordnance factory and the smoky harbour. Then he stopped and pressed his head in his hands.
This was suddenly personal. He wanted to think, switch on his brain to do what he was used to. Retrace the killer`s path. Survey the scene in detail. He would have left some traces behind. Every killer did. But for once in his life, Tunney couldn’t bring himself to do it. Is this the way it would end for him, too? Left for dead by an unknown assassin. Probably. He fished inside his pockets, needing a cigarette badly.
Before he could light it, an Army jeep screeched to a stop in front of him. Colonel Walsingham jumped out, neat and tidy as usual. He came up to Tunney, who forced himself to light the cigarette and take a deep drag. The familiar burn of tar and nicotine in his throat calmed him.
“Is it true?” Walsingham asked.
Tunney nodded. “Fifth floor, door`s open.”
Walsingham gave Tunney a look, then stalked off, followed by a corporal. He was down by the time Tunney had finished his first cigarette and lit another.
“Jesus Christ.” For once, Nicholas Walsingham, a combat veteran, looked shaken. Tunney stayed silent. Walsingham turned to his corporal.
“Secure this street. Stop all ferries and subways at Hoboken Terminal till we give the order. Put patrols at the town borders. You have the description of the suspect. Circulate it to the men.” The corporal saluted crisply and ran off. The clanging bell of the ambulance came around the corner. The medical orderlies were bringing the gurneys down one by one.
Walsingham grabbed Tunney`s elbow, a movement that surprised him. “This way, Major.”
Walsingham walked to the end of the street, two blocks away from the harbour, and found an Irish bar. O`Reilly`s, the sign said in front. They went in through the double doors. It was dim inside, with just three men drinking. The sight of the uniforms caused them to sit up straight. Walsingham ignored them.
“Two whiskeys, straight,” he rasped at the barman. When the drinks arrived he slid one tumbler to Tunney.
“Down it. That`s an order,” Walsingham said, looking at Tunney. Tunney did so. The warmth of the whiskey felt good, settling inside his belly slowly. Tunney called out to the barman.
“Leave the bottle here.” The barman took a look at Tunney, and thumped the bottle down on the bar.
Tunney poured himself a generous portion and filled Walsingham`s glass as well. Both men lit cigarettes.
“He`s either hiding very close, or left Hoboken,” Tunney said in a matter-of-fact voice. He’d needed that whiskey. A comforting numbness was spreading across his chest.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, given that a bullet went through the window, he knew we’d be on to him immediately. Lindquist didn’t mention a get-away car. No one at the back saw him. And I saw blood-stained footprints going up the staircase, not down. I reckon he went up to the roof and then across the tenements. So either he has a get-away car somewhere or he’s still here. I reckon he`s clever enough to know we’ll shut down the roads, ferry and subway. So he’ll bide his time.”
Walsingham swigged his drink. “How are you feeling?”
Tunney wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Better, thank you.”
Walsingham got off his stool, towering over Tunney. “Come on Major, we have work to do.”
*****
Just as Tunney and Walsingham came out of O`Reilly`s bar on Washington Street, an old man with a limp and bag on his back hobbled his way slowly down Willow Avenue, a mere block away. Becker walked away from the water, towards the railway tracks fanning out from Hoboken terminal and ferry. Becker`s aim was to cross the tracks and head towards Newport. He could keep moving south from there and catch the ferry to Ellis Island from the Liberty State Park. From Ellis Island he could take the ferry again to Manhattan.
He could have stayed in his apartment in Clinton Street, but it was risky. If the police decided to do a door to door enquiry with his description, one of his neighbours might give him away. He grabbed what he could from his apartment, but this time put on his blond wig and glasses. He’d shaved earlier in the morning, so his dark beard wasn’t showing. He kept his hat on and had rubbed some black shoe polish on his cheeks and forehead lightly to give his face an unwashed, tired look. In the bag were two changes of clothes and shoes. The metal tubes he stuck in his socks. About ten remained, and these, along with code book, he placed down a gutter on Willow Avenue. They splashed into the gutter water and to his relief, disappeared in the dark swirls of sewage. The code book he didn’t need any more. He knew his orders already.
It was 4:00 p.m. They sky was still bright. Too bright. He needed darkness.
He could see the railway tracks. A steam train was pulling up, its engine belching grey smoke. Passengers were trying to lean out the window.
“Stop!”
Becker froze. The order came from behind. He made a show of leaning over further and turning round with difficulty. He saw an Army jeep with two men in uniform. One was a corporal and the other, a private, was driving the jeep. The corporal got off the car as it stopped. Patrolling the railway line. He shook his head imperceptibly. He should have accounted for that. He watched the jeep carefully. No one else, but he couldn’t be sure. How far were the rest of them?
Slowly, he removed his hat, but kept his glasses on. He needed them both out of the jeep and close. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. They would see a disabled man, probably a bum, and let him go. But they might not. The corporal had a pistol in a belt holster. As the corporal sauntered over, the private killed the engine and followed his officer. The private had a rifle. Looked like a Lee-Enfield. Bolt action. A twelve, probably fifteen cartridge extended magazine. Bad news. If the gun went off, it would alert forces nearby. The private didn’t aim the gun at him, nor did he keep his finger on the trigger. So far, so good. Surprise was the best element in any attack.
The corporal was young. He stopped in front of Becker, who was bent over, but looked up as they approached. The corporal dug his fingers in his belt. The sun shone off the beak of his helmet. He looked down at Becker’s sweating face.
“What`s your name?”
“Paul Becker, Officer,” he tried a salute and a smile. Young men were easily flattered. The corporal`s face didn’t change.
“Where are you going?”
“To see my mother in Newport.”
The corporal looked around. “Through here?”
“I was walking down to the terminal, officer. That way,” he pointed.
“What’s your mother`s name and address?”
“Bertha Becker, 2986 Newport Avenue.”
Becker could see the wheels turning in the young man`s head. He’d been told to watch out for a man. Any man was suspicious right now. Becker didn’t fit the description, but he couldn’t be sure. He probably knew about Jeff Hurst. Knew about the murder in Washington. Becker decided to interrupt the young man`s thinking.
“Is anything the matter, officer?”
“What`s in your bag?”
Becker smiled again. “Change of clothes.”
“Let me see.”
Becker made a show of pain and slowly removed the bag from his back. He handed it over to the corporal. As the corporal checked the clothes inside the bag, he glanced at the private. The foolish boy had his rifle pointed to the ground, and his gaze had wandered towards the waters of
the Hudson. Becker felt no emotion. He was in combat mode now. It was either him or them. But he didn’t want to kill any more. Murders created attention. It was becoming his downfall. He needed to stop. And these men had not, as yet, asked him to take his glasses off, wipe the soot off his face, or pat him down. But they might. His hand snaked down to his belt. The corporal finished going through the bag.
“Can I see any papers?”
“Yes of course, officer.” Again he was slow, deliberate.
The corporal checked his ordnance factory ID, which didn’t have his photo. Then he squinted at Becker.
“What`s with the colour on your face?”
“It`s the grease from the ordnance factory, officer. Gets on our hands and faces. It`s everywhere.” Becker lifted up his hands to show.
“Okay, old man. There’s been a murder on Washington Street. Be careful about who you speak to. The murderer is on the loose and extremely dangerous.”
Becker`s face was a mixture of fear and consternation. “My God,” he crossed himself. “Thank you, officer. God bless you.”
The corporal stared at him for another second, then turned and walked back to the jeep. The private whistled and followed. He put the rifle in the back seat and the jeep drove off with a noisy change of gears and a cloud of black exhaust.
Becker watched them go. When the jeep disappeared from view, he straightened and looked around carefully. Nothing. Silence. He hobbled with his stick, faster this time. He had underestimated the Americans again. Along the coast of New Jersey, they probably had men patrolling everywhere. They might be at the Ellis Island ferry. His choices were getting limited. Somehow, he had to get to Manhattan and on that train tonight.
He vaulted over the wire fence separating the railway lines from the streets. Quickly, he crossed the tracks, wary of a change of signal to warn him of an incoming train. In the distance, he could see people alighting from the train at the platform.
At the end of the tracks, he could see the water on his left. He cut through the railway yards, heading straight for the Hudson. He jumped over the fence of a derelict warehouse, past rusting hulks of old R-11 cargo pullers. After some more unused railways tracks, ending in a blind wall, he came across a deserted pier. An old wooden row boat was tied to it, but hardly capable of sailing across the Hudson. It had taken water already and its hull stuck out like the skeleton of a dead animal. There was a row of more old piers. He walked out to the edge of one. The water was deep here. Lower Manhattan was in the distance.
Becker went back to the shore. He took off his shoulder bag and jacket. Inside his underwear, he stuffed the five thousand dollars. The kukri was securely fastened to his waist. He searched around until he found a loose wooden pole from one of the piers. He drove it into the ground and used the pole like a hammer to flatten the dirt around him. After half an hour, body glistening with sweat, he had a hole large enough to fit his bag. He walked along the water`s edge for five minutes and at the edge of the last pier made a similar hole. Into this hole he put all the explosive devices.
Back to the first hole, he took off his blonde wig, shirt, socks, pants. He was naked now apart from his underwear and the kukri. He stuffed all his clothes into the shoulder bag and put it into the hole. Then he picked up the pole and took it to the water`s edge. He stared at the dark waters of the Hudson for a while. The tide was picking up. It was almost three miles across to Manhattan, but he’d swum more than that before. He hefted the wooden pole in his hands and walked into the water, the first touch of the cold Hudson ripples giving him goose bumps. He patted his crotch. His underwear was wrapped almost skin tight. The money was secure. The kukri was still strapped to his waist, safe in its leather sheath along with the Grand Central locker key. He went deeper into the water, pushing the wooden pole ahead of him. He shivered as the cold water washed over him. When he was chest deep, he kicked off with his legs, pushing the pole away from him. He pedalled powerfully with his legs, bucking his torso, thrusting deeper into the river.
CHAPTER 22
Hoboken Ferry Terminal and Union Railway Station were in chaos. Lines of groaning people stretched out in front of the hastily constructed security check stations. Tunney walked past the row of rifle-toting MP`s forming a barricade to the entrance into the ferry gangplank. He came up to the desk where two MP`s were examining the tickets of a family. He looked around him. The queue stretched out to the next block. The bus station opposite the ferry station was empty. He took a look around. There was a bus timetable and he was trying to read it when someone ran past him. Tunney recognised him.
“Lindquist!”
Sergeant Lindquist turned around. “Major, I’ve been looking for you.”
“Anything to report?”
“No, but I was going to help them with these lines.” He pointed to the ferry terminal.
“No,” Tunney said. “You stay with me. How is the street search going?”
They were going street by street, door to door, knocking and asking. “Three men so far. All on Clinton Street. But something on Willow Avenue as well. So not sure, it`s being checked out as we speak.”
Lindquist`s last words were drowned out in the roar of a biplane. All faces turned upward as the long wings of an Avro 540 swept up and over them. Good, Tunney thought to himself. Walsingham had promised to send a plane down to see if it could spot anything. No less than ten jeep patrols had been sent out to skirt the borders of Hoboken, beyond the Hackensack River, and in Newport and Weehawken. The coastguard had dispatched boats to the mouth of the river and everyone boarding the ferry at Ellis Island was being checked.
A jeep screeched to a stop opposite the road. Tunney recognised the young corporal and his driver as one of the patrols. He ran over. The young corporal, called Baker, saluted.
“Did you see anything suspicious, Corporal?” Tunney asked. He must be barely nineteen, Tunney thought to himself. Hardly a shade of a moustache on his lips.
Corporal Baker shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Well… there was a cripple, but he seemed harmless.”
“A cripple?”
“Yes, sir. He walked with a limp, and he had a shoulder bag. I checked the bag, sir. Only clothes and a pair of shoes. His hair was blond. He didn’t fit the description of the suspect.”
Tunney was thinking fast. Blond hair could be a wig. A limp could be easily be faked. “Was he wearing glasses?”
Baker hesitated. “Yes sir, he was.”
“Did you take them off, Corporal?” Tunney knew the answer from Corporal Baker`s face. “What about his face?”
“It was dark, sir. Like he had black soot on it. He works in the ordnance factory. I saw his papers. He said the colour on his face came from the grease at work—”
Tunney stopped listening after he heard the words “black soot”. He remembered the black paint on the edge of the sink at the hotel room in Washington DC. Where the woman was murdered. Only, it wasn’t paint. It was shoe polish. It could be used to camouflage your face in the dark. It could be used…
“Get in the jeep, now!” he snapped. “Lindquist, come with me. Quickly, Corporal, take me to where you last saw the man!”
The jeep roared around the bend of Washington Avenue, scaring the onlookers, as Tunney hung on grimly, pistol in his hand. Lindquist had his weapon out as well. The sergeant`s jaws were clamped tight and he stared ahead. Tunney was the first to jump out as the jeep came to a stop. He looked around the road and sidewalk, then ran up and down the street. The others were milling around. The street was empty.
“Damn! Damn!” Tunney shouted in frustration.
“He said he was going towards the ferry, to get the boat to Newport,” Corporal Baker`s face was white.
“No,” Tunney seethed. “He knows we’re searching the waterfront.” Tunney looked at the railway tracks, grabbed the fence with his fingers and shook it.
“Corporal Baker, go down this road and follow this fence till it e
nds. See if you can find him. Keep your weapon at the ready. Lindquist, go back to the ferry, get on the phone in their office and tell Walsingham to call the coast guard. We need two or three coast guard boats urgently to cover the water between Manhattan and Newport.”
Lindquist said, “What do you think, Major?”
“I think he has a boat. He`s either jumped the fence and headed out to the water where the old piers are by the railyard. Or somehow he`s managed to get on the subway tunnel or ferry, but I don’t see how.”
“Let me come with you,” Lindquist pleaded.
Tunney shook his head. “We need to spread ourselves. He could have jumped the fence further down the track. Corporal Baker and the driver can check that. But you need to send the message out. Then come back to me.” Tunney pointed across the railroad yard to where the Hudson glistened. “I`ll be down there.”
The men scattered in different directions. Tunney grabbed the pole on the fence and began climbing.
*****
Becker swam at a steady pace. He didn’t want to rush. But neither did he have much time. The water roared in his ears. The cold was invigorating and he rotated his shoulders quickly, his arms scything through the black waves of the rising tide.
He heard the sound of the steamboat before he saw it. He stopped immediately and sank beneath the water. An inky darkness shrouded him. Cautiously, he raised his head up and saw a blue and white steam boat, a chimney sprouting from the middle, black air belching into the sky. It was a Coast Guard vessel. A man with a pistol in his hand was bending over the port side, scanning the water. Becker cursed. Somehow, they’d figured out he was trying to get across the Hudson into New York.
Becker considered his chances. He could swim underwater as long as he could, but frequently he still needed to surface. The manner in which the guard was closely checking the water suggested they had no doubt Becker was out here. It seemed only two men were on board. He made his mind up.