by Mick Bose
He thrashed water, gasping, gagging, crying for help. The boat was ten yards away and the guard jerked his head up towards the sound.
Becker sank beneath the surface, only keeping his hand aloft. As the boat drew nearer, through the water Becker could see the pistol still in the man`s hand as he leaned forward. Becker lifted his head up slightly.
“Help! Help! I`m drowning”, Becker coughed and spluttered, and sank again. He managed to keep his eyes open, and saw the pistol go back into the holster. The man disappeared from view, then returned with a length of rope which he threw to Becker. The coast guard leaned over to help. Still pretending to choke and splutter, Becker reached behind him and unsheathed his kukri, keeping it out of sight under water.
Once Becker had his foot on the gunwale, the man was as good as dead. He didn’t see the kukri slash at him. Becker almost decapitated the man with a single stroke.
Becker sprang onto the deck. The boat shuddered and swayed. Becker spread his legs and steadied himself. It was a simple twenty-footer with a coal steam engine. At the cabin, the short, rotund captain had his back to him, oblivious to what happened. Becker unbuttoned the dead man’s coat and ripped it off—he would need it later. He wiped the kukri on a stack of ropes and advanced stealthily until he tapped on the captain’s shoulder.
“What`s the matter, Lester? You found something?” the Captain shouted, not turning around.
“Yes, I have,” Becker said solemnly.
The captain turned around and Becker saw his eyes widen in fear. Shocked, the captain shrank back against the steering wheel.
“Take the boat back, Captain. Now.” Becker spoke gently, as he always did. The kukri did most of the talking. “Turn the boat around,”
The captain was gasping. “Les… Lester…”
“He`s dead,” Becker said. He waved the kukri. “I cut his neck. I need you to turn around and head back to Manhattan.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Not if you take the boat back to Manhattan.”
The captain gulped and turned around to the controls. Becker watched him dispassionately. The man`s hands flew over the controls. The boat lurched to port, then straightened and began chugging back towards Manhattan.
CHAPTER 23
While the captain steered the boat back, Becker went to the deck to clean up. He had looked carefully in the cabin: no signs of a wireless radio the captain could use. He checked himself quickly. The tight wad of money, and the locker key was in place. He undressed the dead man more and gathered his clothes. Then he threw the body overboard. He found a towel to dry himself. Swiftly, he got changed.
When the boat`s hull bumped gently against the jetty, the captain stood still stiffly, too scared to turn around. The rough sensation of a rope dropping around his neck was the last he had. Behind him, Becker pulled both ends hard and he heard the pop as the trachea gave way. The captain`s body fell to the deck and jerked a few times like a fish on a hook. Then it was still.
The three-story Coast Station looked deserted, but Becker couldn’t be sure. He grabbed the mooring rope and tossed it over a pole of the pier.
How much time did he have? Soon, someone would come to this station and find the empty boat with the dead body. He gave himself an hour at the very most. His train for Cleveland left in an hour and a half. In that time he had to get his material from the locker as well. More importantly, he needed to be inside the train before someone realised his getaway was the train station. If it was up to him, the station and the harbour were the two places he would have on lock down. It was likely there would be guards at Grand Central, looking for him.
He checked his kukri and the money, made sure he had the locker key, and jumped off the boat. The station doors were open, but he didn’t go in. In the dead man`s boots, he marched across to an iron grill gate blocking the exit and climbed over.
He recognised the neighbourhood. Garbage lay dumped on street corners and in front of tenements. Children played hopscotch and marbles on the street. Young men with peaked peasant caps and hard, hungry faces stared at him as he passed. The terraced buildings were huddled close together and he knew each one overflowed with humanity—four, even five families packed into the floor space for one. This was West 43rd street, and the area surrounding, from West 34th up to 57th, was aptly titled Hell`s Kitchen. A smell of filth pervaded the air, a stench that the proximity to the river did nothing to relieve. Becker hurried his pace. This was Irish gangland. Every store and bar paid protection money to keep themselves safe. Outsiders were routinely robbed, beaten, left for dead. No one would bat an eyelid, if Becker got into trouble.
Becker often thought Hell`s Kitchen and the Lower East Side were the two sides of a purgatory, relieved by the orderly heaven of midtown`s skyscrapers and Central Park. He didn’t understand how the public services could be so weak in New York. The city was in many ways the symbol of America to the world, and rightly so. But nowhere in Europe had he come across slums worse than he’d seen here. Grand Central Terminal lay straight across on the other side of the city. He was close, a few blocks away. If he moved fast it wouldn’t take him more than thirty minutes. That gave him more than an hour to get to the lockers and board the train.
Unless, of course, the authorities were searching every man with his description entering the station.
*****
It was almost 6:45 pm when Tunney stood inside the coast guard`s boat, looking over the body of Captain Romano. The tongue was protruding and the eyes were staring straight ahead, pupils fixed and dilated. Asphyxiated. The bruise around his neck was turning a nasty black and purple. Tunney touched the skin. Still warm. Couldn’t have been long.
“Jesus Christ!”
Tunney craned his neck back. Lindquist was breathless, staring at the corpse. “I came as soon as I could, sir. How the hell did this happen?”
“A crew came back from upstream and found him. He had a private with him, God knows where he is.” Tunney gestured at the water. “Probably somewhere in there. They called me at the ferry office. I came over in one of their boats.” Tunney passed a weary hand over his forehead and forced himself to think. This man, the killer with the machete, was acting like a man on a mission. He was trying to get away. Get somewhere. He was on the run. The ports had been alerted, the train station, too… Tunney went rigid.
The train station.
“Sergeant, we’re close to Grand Central Terminus, aren’t we?”
Lindquist stared back at Tunney. Realisation dawned on his face. “Yes sir,” he whispered.
Lindquist was off the boat first. They burst through the station doors and ran out across the street, past the warehouses.
“Lindquist,” Tunney panted. “Go to the 16th Precinct. We need more men. See me at the station, hurry!”
Lindquist sped off, while Tunney continued straight on, sweat pouring down his head. His hat flew off—he didn’t bother stopping. As he approached Eighth Avenue he saw a large crowd blocking the road. Tunney swore vehemently.
“Make way, make way. Police!” He shouted at the top of his voice. The crowd ahead was impenetrable. The strains of a marching band came through the commotion. He began pushing people, but it was no use.
“Move, damn you,” he shouted in frustration. His voice was lost in the clash of cymbals from the band. Tunney pulled out his pistol and fired into the sky. The roar of the gun had the desired effect on the crowd. Bodies shuddered and broke for cover. Tunney fired again, and this time the band stopped abruptly, people fleeing for the sides of the street. Tunney holstered his gun and ran harder than he ever had in his life. He almost hit a horse-drawn coach, making the animal rear up in fright. Tunney screamed and held his hands out, waving his badge. The slow-moving automobiles honked their horns and slowed down further.
By the time he had run the three blocks to Park Avenue, his clothes were soaked in sweat. He almost collided with a man wearing the tunic of the NYPD, then he saw a group of soldiers alighting from
an Army truck as well.
“Sir, over here.” Lindquist was waving from the entrance. He had made a blockade and uniformed police officers were explaining to disgruntled passengers. Tunney ran past Lindquist, pulling on his arm.
“He`s in there,” Tunney shouted. “Check the trains. Find out which ones are leaving.”
Tunney stopped and stared up at the train timetables. He scanned the destinations. Philadelphia, Boston, Pittsburgh, Washington DC, Cleveland… Tunney kicked his heels in frustration. The concourse of the station was gleaming, people hurried all around him. The killer could be anywhere. He had no choice but to check all the trains. But to begin with, they needed to search, and if possible stop, the trains leaving now. Even as he considered this, Tunney realised how impossible it sounded.
Stop the trains for what? On whose authority? Tunney saw Lindquist running towards him with a bunch of men.
“Sergeant! Divide the men up. I want you to search the trains that are leaving now and in the next ten minutes. Speak to the guards. Ask them about a man matching our suspect, but wearing a coast guard’s uniform. Take the eastern platforms,” Tunney pointed. “And I will take the western side. Hurry.”
Five men peeled off with Tunney and another five with Lindquist. Breathless, Tunney approached the gates of the DC train. Passengers were still boarding. Amid shouts and groans, Tunney and the men elbowed their way to the gates where the guards were checking tickets one last time before the passengers boarded the trains. He spoke to the guards, who listened, then shook their heads. Tunney looked at the crowd behind him and realised how helpless it was. He grabbed one of his men.
“Stay here with the guards. If you see the suspect, do not hesitate to shoot. Injure him, but try not to kill. We need him alive.” The officer nodded. Tunney ran off with the other men to the next gate. It was the Cleveland train.
He rushed up to the guards and explained. They looked at Tunney with a bemused expression on their faces.
“The Cleveland train was scheduled for 7:30 p.m. sir. It just left.” The man pointed down the tracks. The last carriage of the train was turning a bend, slowly disappearing out of sight.
*****
Maggie looked at her father`s face as he ate. The kitchen and dining room were filled with the fragrance of Miranda Myer`s wonderful rabbit stew, making Maggie`s mouth water. To her relief, Papa was finally eating some solid food. It had been fourteen days since the onset of the fever. His cheeks were sunken, eye sockets prominent with bags underneath. He was hunched forward and with a stab of dismay she realised he looked like a much older man. Even two weeks ago, Papa was lifting bales of hay into the loft above the stables. Now, she doubted he could walk to the stables unaided. She looked down at her empty bowl. Her appetite was suddenly gone.
Miranda walked in with a tray of freshly baked bread. She put the tray down and looked questioningly at Maggie`s empty bowl. Maggie smiled feebly and reached for the stew ladle. She tore off a chunk of bread from the slices her mother had cut and dipped it into her stew. She looked up as Papa extended his hand for a slice. Their eyes met and Papa smiled. He was trying to be reassuring about his health.
After dinner, they sat around the table, sipping coffee.
“That was a wonderful stew, Miranda. Thank you,” Karl said.
“Good job you’re eating. We need to get some strength back in you,” Miranda said.
Karl stood up. “I`m ready for bed actually.”
Maggie stood up as well. Karl looked at her. “I’m alright, Maggie. You can sit back down.”
Maggie and her mother exchanged a glance. “It`s ok, Papa,” Maggie said. “I was only going to help you up the stairs.”
“I said, I can manage. Now sit down,” Karl said, harshly.
Maggie looked down at the floor. Immediately Karl softened. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “You two can’t keep looking after me. I’m not an invalid.”
“No one is saying that, Karl,” Miranda said.
Karl looked at his wife without saying anything for a while. “Goodnight,” he said eventually. Shoulders bent, he shuffled out of the door, holding on to the walls. Miranda heard the stairs creak, then stop, and creak again as Karl went slowly up the stairs. She got up and went to the foot of the stairs. If he fell, she wanted to be there. When she was satisfied that he was in the bedroom, Maggie went back to the kitchen. Her mother was clearing up the dishes.
*****
As always, Maggie woke up early the next morning, while dawn was still a shy, pink flutter in the sky. She wrapped a cloak around herself, took the Springfield rifle from the cupboard next to the pantry, and went outside to saddle Lucky. She wanted to check the perimeter quickly and start her list of jobs. She checked the chicken coop. The hens were asleep with the heads curled over their necks. She hoped they had laid some eggs. They fetched a good price. Astride Lucky, she went out to the fence perimeter. She saw two coyotes in the distance. Maggie wasn’t concerned. The hen coop was too far away for these animals.
When she got back to the farm, the sun was warming up her back. She needed to have a quick breakfast, then get to the task of shifting the fifty-five pound bushels of corn onto the cart and take it to the market. It was hard work and she doubted that between Mama and herself they would manage more than ten. But it was better than nothing.
CHAPTER 24
United States Secretary of State Robert Lansing cleared this throat. Immediately, there was silence around the table.
“So, gentlemen, are we any closer to catching the man who stole the secret documents?”
Tunney was aware that the eyes turned on him. He sighed. Tunney was exhausted. It had been two days since the man had disappeared. He hadn’t slept the night before. The converted office in the 16th Precinct where the MID had their temporary offices now sported a single bed. All night long the phone had been ringing. Police Department chiefs up and down the east coast called with updated reports of possible sightings, even in disguise. Tunney took these himself. Over the last three days, he’d started to get a sixth sense for this man. The so-called Gurkha—a man who liked planning things thoroughly. That scared Tunney. The Gurkha had something dangerous up his sleeve. Tunney could feel it. It kept him awake at night.
He spent an hour yesterday morning consoling Chris Corell`s wife and family. Tunney had seen colleagues die before. Shot. Blown up. Drowned. But nothing prepared him for the vicious nature of Corell`s death. He tried telling himself it wasn’t guilt that kept surfacing at the back of his mind. That it wasn’t a low, constant edge telling him he should have sent more men on the job. That, even as he shook Corell`s father`s hand and murmured apologies, he’d looked away from the older man`s stare, unable to meet his eyes.
“Major Tunney?”
Tunney jerked his head back up. The Chief of Army Staff, General March, was looking at him closely. This time Rear Admiral William Sims had joined them as well. Tunney saw the reassuring face of Colonel Walsingham. Walsingham smiled. Tunney didn’t. He shuffled the reports on his desk.
“The fugitive disappeared from the Coast Guard station in Hell`s Kitchen. Personally, I don’t believe he’s in New York. We’ve checked every hotel, boarding house, brothel in the city in the last forty-eight hours, and the search is still ongoing. This man is clever and ruthless. He hasn’t left the city by the ports, we know that much, or by any bus service. His meeting with the Irish gangsters and his subsequent direction of travel point to two possible modes of transit. A train from Grand Central or an escape by boat, maybe from the coast of Long Island.”
“Have we identified the man?”
Walsingham said, “The most likely possibility is a man who matches the description, and lived in an apartment in Clinton Avenue of Hoboken. His neighbours mention that he was a loner. They never saw anyone go into his apartment. He spent a lot of time on the roof, according to an old lady who lived in the apartment below him. His tenement was one of the highest in Hoboken, and it gave a clear view from the north end of Hobo
ken Harbour.”
”My God. The NYPOE”, General March said with a sigh. The New York Port of Embarkation Authority was a huge Army command created to transfer two million men and supplies to France. Hoboken was synonymous with NYPOE.
“It has to be him giving the timing of our ships to the enemy,” Admiral Sims said gruffly.
“Was,” Walsingham said. “In the last four days, there hasn’t been anything on the radio waves about ship timings. That coincides with him breaking into Camp Manhattan in Washington.”
There was a hint of anger in Robert Lansing`s voice. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“His landlord names him as Paul Becker. We spent the last three days combing through birth certificates. A Paul Becker was born in Newport in 1884. He applied for a passport in 1914. We don’t know much about him in between. His family are all deceased.”
Tunney said, “Every murder our suspect has committed has been by using a sharp, machete-like weapon. Inspector Corell wouldn’t have engaged this man without good reason. We had an eye witness in the apartment with Corell. They must have seen the suspect commit the murders and Giuseppe, the witness, must have identified him.”
Tunney spread his hands. “The two bomb-makers, Kiezle and Riordan, formed a triangle with Dr Klinsman, their explosives expert. One by one, they’ve all been killed in exactly the same way. We know that Klinsman was the contact for Captain Rintelen and the other German agents when the consulate was open. Two days after Klinsmann dies, we have the break-in at Camp Manhattan. Then we find Jocelyn Flexman killed in the same manner. It’s also critical to realise that Kiezle`s apartment in Hoboken had explosives. This man must have taken them. Sir, I know it’s him—whatever his name is. It can’t be anyone else.”
“Isn’t Long Island where you intercepted the wireless radio operators?” It was General March again.