The Dead Don't Bleed: A Novel

by David Krugler

  That if I kept the gun against Himmel’s strict instructions to toss it, I’d hide it in plain sight, where I could get to it easily, but I wouldn’t stash it someplace obvious. The thirty-eight’s not in a plastic bag taped to the toilet tank, it’s not in the breadbox, it’s not behind the books, it’s not under my mattress. What I’m worried about: If they decide to eliminate me, they’ll try to make it look like a robbery, like I came home and surprised a burglar and got shot in the struggle. They’ll send someone I’ll let in, someone Himmel would vouchsafe, someone who’d put me at ease, then—bang-bang. So long, Philip Greene, thanks for taking care of our traitor Logan Skerrill. So I want my gun where I can reach it without tipping off my would-be assassin. What I’m gonna do when I let him in, I’m gonna walk toward the kitchen, like I’m about to ask if I can make some coffee, which leads me right past this coatrack, right past this old suit jacket hanging behind the raincoat, and when I turn to ask about the coffee, I reach right into the side pocket and—

  Bang, bang. I cradled a thirty-eight in my gloved hands, the same type of weapon used to shoot Logan Skerrill, held it up to the sunlight streaming in through Greene’s front window. No sign of prints, but maybe Greene had rubbed it clean, just in case the cops tossed his place? A wiped gun wasn’t my problem, I decided—one for the prosecutor.

  Definitely my problem: the illegal search. If the gun matched the shells that Durkin, the city detective, had retrieved from the alley, then pinning the killing on Greene was easy-breezy—but only if the gun was admissible. Which it sure the hell wasn’t now, not even with a judge who hated Reds. Put the thirty-eight back, call Terrance and tell him to call Durkin to get a warrant? No good, either; I’d have to give a sworn statement. Spinning a yarn wasn’t hard—I could say Greene had bragged about being an enforcer for Himmel, about being an A-1 gunslinger—but I couldn’t break cover, not yet, not until I made a copy of the envelope in my back pocket and kept my meeting with Himmel at the Library of Congress. Even if I found a way to make the statement, it took time to get a warrant. What if Greene got rid of the gun while we were waiting? Paslett might not care, he was only concerned about the espionage. Identifying Skerrill’s killer wouldn’t be as important to him, not after he found out Skerrill had betrayed the O.N.I. Good riddance, right?

  But nailing Greene for Skerrill’s murder was important to me. Which is why I dropped the thirty-eight in my rucksack and hightailed it out of the flat.

  CHAPTER 33

  I STASHED THE THIRTY-EIGHT UNDER THE PASSENGER SEAT OF GREENE’S car, making sure it was within reach of a driver with arms shorter than mine. As in, the arms of the car’s owner. At Logan Circle I took Vermont Avenue south to I Street. Pulled up in front of Iceland’s Chancery, stopped right under a NO PARKING sign that threatened immediate towing of violators’ vehicles. We had an important base in Iceland—hell, wasn’t I supposed to be there that very moment?—so keeping Iceland’s diplomats happy was important. If the Chancery called the city to complain about a dented Chevy in its No Parking zone, that Chevy wasn’t staying long. And once the city looked up how many parking violations that particular vehicle had lately racked up, the owner wasn’t getting his car back anytime soon.

  I hadn’t even finished dashing across I Street toward the La Fayette Hotel when a guard came running out of the sentry box, waving his arms and shouting. I pretended not to hear him, rounded Sixteenth Street. When I was out of sight, I entered the hotel and went straight to the lobby, which offered a fine view of the Chancery. The guard, I was pleased to see, had returned to his box and had a telephone receiver in his hand. I fired up an Old Gold, reached for the Evening Star on the coffee table in front of me. I was halfway through my second cigarette and the front page section when the city tow truck rolled up. The Chancery guard watched with his arms folded, a satisfied look on his Icelandic face as the driver started chaining the Chevy’s bumper. I finished my smoke, folded the newspaper, and headed to the bank of telephone booths on the far wall.

  “Daley,” my partner answered gruffly.

  “It’s Voigt, can you talk?”

  “Jesus, what’re you doing, calling direct?”

  “Listen up, partner, s’all breaking open. Himmel had me make the last pick-up this morning, it’s in my back pocket, m’supposed to give it to him now. Not at H & H, he wants me to come to the Library of Congress.”

  “Fuck, they’re about to split.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Can you get the package to us first?”

  “No, we got something else we gotta do and quick.”

  “What?”

  “Pick up Durkin and go straight to H & H—I need him to arrest Philip Greene, and I need you there when it happens. Remember Greene, he’s the office manager?”

  “Yeah, yeah—what’s the charge?”

  “He did Skerrill.”

  “For real? Why?”

  “Remember that little problem I got with our friends from the Bureau?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Guess how John Edgar’s boys found out about H & H.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Nope, Skerrill was working for the Bureau. I don’t know why, yet—maybe he got worried, thought he was about to be discovered, so he offered himself as a mole to the Bureau to dig himself out, or maybe the Bureau got to him first and flipped him.”

  “Nice’a the Bureau to tell us,” Terrance said bitterly.

  “Don’t worry, they’re gonna get what they deserve.”

  “How d’you know Greene got the job to take care of Skerrill?”

  “I got proof. Have Durkin send a man to the city impoundment lot to search a Chevy with tag number one-six-three dash four-nine-five. That’s Greene’s car, he keeps a thirty-eight under the seat. Durkin needs to get that weapon tested pronto.” I listened to the sound of rapid scribbling.

  “S’not proof till the gun matches the slug from the alley.”

  “Durkin got a matchable bullet, remember? Get the gun and the bullet to their ballistics—”

  “Shouldn’t we wait to pick Greene up till they test the gun?”

  “We don’t have time. Besides, I want the test results to come in while we’re questioning Greene—I wanna shove that report right under his nose.”

  “What if the bullet doesn’t match?”

  “Then tell Durkin to tell his boys to write up a fake one. What we gotta do is, we gotta sweat Greene, get him to confess.”

  Long pause. “I better check with the commander, he’s gonna wanna—”

  “No, no—listen, Terrance, don’t tell Paslett. We’ll tell him we had to move too fast, there was no time—and there isn’t, there really isn’t.”

  “Shouldn’t we arrest all of them at once? I mean, if we take Greene outta there, they’re gonna run.”

  I checked my watch: 12:07.

  “Not if you move now—Greene always takes his lunch break at Cheryl’s Luncheonette, it’s on the west side’a Twelfth, a tick or two north of K.” I described Greene: short, solid build, comb-over, tortoise shell glasses, mustache. “Grab him there, they won’t know what happened over at H & H.”

  “You sure he’ll be there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve been working with these people a while, I know their habits. Get Durkin, arrest Greene, and bring him to the Fifth Precinct. And make sure the city boys get the gun outta Greene’s car. Don’t let him call a lawyer or anybody. I’ll meet you at the Fifth.”

  “Okay.” Still dubious.

  “Terrance, if we get Greene to confess to killing Skerrill, we can force him to roll on the rest’a the Reds. With what I’ve brought in from being Himmel’s courier, we’ll know how much they know about New Mexico and how far it’s gone.”

  “All right, gotcha. Hey, what about the Bureau, aren’t they still tailing you?”

  “Nope, they’re too busy picking up litter in the Rock Creek Parkway.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll tell you after we grill Greene.”


  “Okay.”

  I hung up. With the telephone booth door still shut, I took the envelope out of my pocket. Another plain white business envelope, no markings. I could probably ask the hotel desk clerk for a replacement, wouldn’t even have to stop at a druggist’s or stationer’s on my way to meet Himmel. Flash: What if the deliveries I’d handled, including this one, had some kind of invisible marking, a watermark that only showed up under blue light? Then Himmel would know I’d opened them. I lit a cigarette to calm my racing pulse, my churning stomach. Okay, okay, okay, if Himmel suspected Ted Barston of compromising his operation, he’d have done something right away, right? Fire me, call the police and accuse me of stealing—or arrange the hit I’d worried about during my first day, when I’d had Terrance follow me to make sure I’d be all right. But just because it hadn’t happened the first time didn’t mean it couldn’t still happen. As in, this afternoon. What if, what if, what if . . . a man could what if himself into panic and paralysis. And I sure as hell couldn’t afford that at that moment.

  I ripped open the envelope. Inside, nothing but a white slip of paper. Yes, it read. Nothing but that single word. Yes. Yes!? For that slip of paper, I’d led four F.B.I. agents on a wild goose chase, I’d thrown a week’s worth of newspaper clippings into Rock Creek, I’d caused a traffic jam and pile-up on the Taft Bridge—all for one lousy word? Was Himmel playing some kind of joke?

  He expected me to get caught! He didn’t expect me to shake the Bureau’s tail, I realized; I was just the decoy. By keeping the G-men busy, I freed up Himmel to receive, unnoticed, the package he was actually waiting to receive. Or was I running scared, hearing the bay of hounds that weren’t really on my trail? Jesus, I was frazzled, my nerves raw and heart pounding, struggling to think straight. I deep-dragged my smoke till I calmed down a bit. Whatever Himmel’s motive, I was going to follow through with his instruction to meet him.

  I pulled open the booth door and went to the front desk. Sure enough, the clerk gave me a plain envelope when I asked nicely. I sealed up the slip of paper, had the doorman hail me a hack. I couldn’t wait to see Himmel’s face when I found him at the Library of Congress.

  WHEN I FIRST GOT TO WASHINGTON, I USED TO SPEND A LOT OF TIME in the reading room of the Library of Congress. Mahogany desks encircle the circulation counter, cream-red marble columns support a dome, gold leaf adorns every corner and lintel, as profligate as ivy. Two-story alcoves with cast-iron shelves and narrow spiral staircases are lined with books. On clear summer afternoons, bright light pierces the dome’s leaded glass, illuminating certain desks—surprised readers look up, blinking, when the sun catches their spot. Sometimes I didn’t even read, just sat thinking about nothing in particular, content to listen to the quiet sounds of a library at work. Occasional coughs, rustle of turning pages, scratch and whisk of energetic note-taking, rickety ticking of a book cart’s caster, thud of a call slip being date-stamped. Perhaps I needed a contemplative refuge from the O.N.I., from the pace and press of wartime life, hard to say now. Whatever the reason, my last sojourn to the library had occurred more than a year ago.

  If Himmel was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it. He was sitting near a column in the outer circle of desks. Didn’t greet me, just motioned toward one of the alcoves and set down the book he was reading, The Cathedrals of the Rhine and North Germany. He ascended the staircase, I followed. We entered the stacks, walked single file between two long shelves to the rear wall, turned right, kept going. The stacks created a maze of books, easy to get lost in despite the straight rows. Alongside the section of books on the Ancient Near East, Himmel halted. We hadn’t seen or heard anyone else—you could spend hours in the stacks without encountering another human being.

  “So?” he asked.

  I wordlessly handed him the envelope.

  “Difficult?”

  I shrugged.

  “You have done a good job, Ted.”

  “Thanks.”

  He studied me in a clinical, detached way, the way a doctor might if you told him you had a medical problem.

  “Dat it?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  Funny. But I kept my expression impassive, too. “What’s gonna happen ta H & H, Mister Himmel?”

  “Now that you have brought the Federal Bureau of Investigation into my affairs, you mean?”

  Had to let that slide, couldn’t get angry—had to stay Ted Barston, eager to keep the job, playing the part to the end.

  “Well, if I did anything ta make dat happen, I’m sure sorry, Mister Himmel.”

  “I know, Ted. Still, I must let you go. Your efforts to finish this last task for me are appreciated, but Miss Silva informs me that you didn’t complete any other deliveries today.”

  “No, sir, couldn’t get ta ’em.”

  “My gratitude will be apparent when you pick up your pay envelope from Miss Silva.”

  “Okay.” That’s it, that’s all? But that was Ellis Voigt’s question, not Ted Barston’s. “Guess I better let you find da way out,” I said.

  Himmel didn’t answer, just walked back down the row of books. I followed silently. We exited the stacks and clomped down the alcove’s staircase. Himmel returned to his desk, picked up his book, and resumed reading, looking just like a professor doing research. I kept on walking and didn’t look back.

  Maybe there was more to the message I’d just delivered than I first thought. Yes, our meeting is on. Or, Yes, you should proceed. But who was Himmel meeting (possibly), what should he proceed with (possibly)? Himmel appeared to think we’d never see each other again. I wasn’t so sure. But until I knew more about what that Yes meant, I couldn’t say how, or where, or why we would meet.

  CHAPTER 34

  I FLAGGED A HACK RIGHT OUTSIDE THE LIBRARY—NO SHORTAGE OF CABS on the Hill—and gave him the address of the Fifth Precinct. What ifs gnawed at me the whole ride. What if Terrance had ignored me, had gone to Paslett for instructions? What if he and Durkin hadn’t found Greene? What if Durkin couldn’t find the ballistics expert, what if they couldn’t whip up a report—real or bogus—on such short notice?

  I paid the driver with the last of my O.N.I. cash and hustled into the police station, a red brick building with stone lintels set above tall windows. In the waiting area a sullen-looking couple sat on the wooden bench near the entrance. Cigarette smoke drifted up toward the clattering ceiling fan; the piebald floorboards creaked as two patrolmen walked out. At the reception desk, a man clutching a parking ticket was arguing with the sergeant. I waited impatiently, furiously dragging on an Old Gold. I wasn’t in uniform, didn’t have my O.N.I. identification card, couldn’t cut in. Finally John Q. Citizen stomped off, ticket still in hand.

  “Detective Sergeant Durkin’s expecting me; so’s the naval officer with him.”

  The sergeant, a thin man with slicked-back brown hair, eyed me over. “They’re busy.”

  “Like I said, they’re expecting me.”

  “All right.” Still not believing me. He stepped to the rear counter, picked up a telephone, dialed an in-house number and murmured something. Waited, said yes, hung up. Came back and pointed to the corridor to my right. “Second door on the left.”

  Terrance answered my knock. I stepped aside as my partner came out—I didn’t want Greene to see me yet.

  “You got him?” I asked.

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “What happened?”

  “Didn’t go easy, s’all.” Massaging the knuckles of his right hand.

  “Lemme guess—says he’s as innocent as the pure driven snow.”

  “A’course. If he says one more time we got no proof . . .” Expectant look.

  “Get the gun?”

  “Durkin says they did. I haven’t seen it.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “At the police lab. Durkin’s pretty put out, says it usually takes a week to get a ballistics report, outta the blue we want it in a hour for a case we took from ’em, boo-hoo,
boo-hoo.”

  “We’ll get him some flowers when this is over. Are they gonna put something in front of us pronto?”

  Terrance checked his watch. “S’pposed to be here by two at the latest.”

  I turned my wrist: 1:27.

  “Perfect. All right, what we’re gonna do is, I’m gonna push Greene hard on Skerrill, soften him up for when the ballistics report gets here.”

  “Ellis, he’s stubborn like a mule—keeps shouting for a lawyer, not just any shyster, someone he says he’s got on retainer. S’making Durkin awful nervous—and me, too, I gotta say.” Translation: we couldn’t delay Greene’s call much longer. And it wouldn’t take an attorney long to get a message to Silva and Himmel.

  “I got that covered, we’re gonna get everything we need outta Greene right now.”

  “We better, ’cause Paslett’s gonna wonder where the hell I am pretty soon and what’s going on.”

  “Don’t sweat it, we’re gonna nail Greene for doing Skerrill and then we’re gonna roll up the Reds at H & H before the Bureau can make their move. The old man’s not gonna care we didn’t brief him first, trust me.”

  Terrance studied me closely. His expression uncomfortably reminded me of Himmel’s long look at the library. “Okay, your show, let’s go,” he finally said, opening the door.

  The interrogation room was small and windowless. Glazed ocher tiles on the lower half of the walls, yellowing plaster with hairline cracks to the ceiling. A sturdy wooden table scarred with scratches and cigarette burns. Durkin was seated facing the door, Greene had his back to it. Terrance and I came around and sat on either side of Durkin.

  Greene’s eyes slitted in anger when he recognized me. “You! I shoulda known! How much are they paying you, you goddamned worthless—”

  “Zip it, Greene,” I cut in, using my normal voice. “M’not Ted Barston, I’m a naval intelligence officer. We’ve been on to you and your Red pals at H & H for a while now.”