“Does that little piece of paper scare you that much, Herr Wexler?” I belted out another gale. “Careful, paper-cuts are the worst!”
Finally, he dropped the gun on his desk, within easy reach. He smiled broadly. “I like you, little lady, you got spunk. Hell, ain’t many men could laugh down the barrel of a .45. Most men wet their britches when someone points a gun at ‘em. You got spunk and I like it.”
“Thanks.” I mashed my cigarette out on the arm of the chair. “You wouldn’t shoot us in here. You’d ruin the furniture.”
“A fair point. Well, who the hell are you two lunatics anyway?”
“I’m Weber, he’s Bauer.” I lit another smoke.
Norman smiled. “Ich heiße Bauer.”
“Don’t waste your breath. I don’t speak German.” He gave Norman a dubious eye before turning back to me. “You’re Weber? Eva Weber? Gottlieb told me you were in town, though his description of you fell short of the reality. I know your father by reputation. I’m so glad we’re all friends here.” He smiled but watched me closely.
I threw him a crooked smile. “We’re from out of town, but we’re friends just the same.” I put the same emphasis on the word he had.
Wexler relaxed a little. “Good. Pleased to make your acquaintance, but we’re still left with the same problem. This isn’t yours.” He waved the marker at me. “Where did you get it?”
“From Shultz.”
Wexler blinked. “From who?”
“Joe Shultz. He’s one of our friends too.”
A little crease formed on Wexler’s brow as his mind worked. “I don’t know that name.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his desk. “Why did he give it to you?”
“I’m looking for his girlfriend.”
“Why?”
“She’s a friend of mine.”
He rubbed his bulbous nose. “No, I meant is she missing? Did she leave him or something?”
I shrugged and took a drag on my smoke. “I’ll ask her when I find her.”
“What’s her name?”
“Heloise Kendall. Heard of her?” I watched him closely for any flicker of recognition but saw none.
“Can’t say that it’s any too familiar. How long has she been gone?”
“I’m not sure. Does that matter?”
He hissed out a long, exasperated sigh. “It might. Your Heloise Kendall isn’t the only missing person around here.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
He rubbed his nose again, more vigorously this time. “One of our guys is missing too. Name’s Heinrich Richter; do you know the name?”
“I’ve heard it.”
“I thought you might have. He’s been missing a couple of days. We’ve looked for him in all the usual places, no luck. He’s a good-looking young fella, fillies like his blue eyes, and believe me, he likes the fillies.”
I chuffed a dual gust of smoke out of my nose. “So, you think Kendall ran off with Richter?”
A crooked grin surfaced on his face. “The thought crossed my mind. You don’t think it could have happened?”
“Maybe.” I tugged at my lip as I ran the possibility through my brain. “Would you say Richter was the temperamental sort? Would he have killed Shultz for the girl?”
Wexler’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “Shultz is dead?”
I nodded. “Shot twice in the back, and once in the head just for fun. Sound like Richter’s style?”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and a glass. “Drink?”
“No thanks. None for Bauer either.” Norman shot me an annoyed glance. “He has a delicate stomach.”
“Fortunately, I do not.” Wexler filled the glass, then swallowed half of it. “Since we’re all friends, I won’t mince any words here. Richter was active. Now, that’s not my end of the stick, I’m just an accountant. I don’t know what he was up to, and I don’t think it’d do me much good to find out. He got into some trouble a while back, in Washington I believe, so he came here to wait for things to calm down a bit. From what I hear, he wasn’t any stranger to a gun. He could have killed your boy all right. That doesn’t mean he popped Shultz, just that he could’ve if he’d wanted to.”
“Best suspect I’ve found so far.”
He squinted at me and sipped at his bourbon. “Did Shultz give you the marker before or after he got shot?”
I took one last drag and snuffed out my Camel. “After. He gave me some cigarettes too.”
Wexler laughed and pounded the desktop with his beefy fist. “Shultz sounds like a generous fella. Did he happen to mention how he got the marker?”
“Nah. The holes in his lungs impaired our otherwise scintillating conversation.”
He suddenly stood up and paced behind his desk. “Dammit! How did a little nobody end up with the marker? It doesn’t make any sense!”
Norman cleared his throat. “Uh, who was supposed to have the marker?”
Wexler stared at a spot on the far wall for a minute, then collapsed back in his chair. “Nobody. I planted it to catch a thief.”
That made me chuckle. “Are you serious?”
He rubbed his eyes and looked very tired. “It’s an internal problem, and I really wish someone of your stature amongst our friends hadn’t found out about it. Certain thefts have occurred lately, so I planted the marker to flush out the thief.”
“I take it someone like Shultz couldn’t have stolen it?”
He shook his jowls. “Shultz would have just been rank-and-file. Our thief ranks much higher.”
“How high?”
“One of maybe half a dozen men.”
I whistled. “So, it’d be someone prominent. A leader.”
He nodded and poured himself another bourbon. “Yeah. It’d have to be.”
“Who are they? The six men that you mentioned.”
Wexler wriggled in his chair, making it squeal. “I don’t want to engage in idle speculation. Their names aren’t important. Like I said, it’s an internal problem.” He held up his hands placatingly. “Now, I don’t mean to be rude and I don’t want to offend you. I just think it’s best to keep things in the family, if you know what I mean.”
I shook out a cigarette and took my time lighting it. “Okay. I’m fine leaving that nonsense to you. I’m still gonna look for Kendall, but from what you tell me, there’s a chance I’ll find Richter with her. If I do find him, what do you want me to do with him?”
He snatched up a pen and scribbled a number on a little piece of paper which he sat on the desk nearest me. “Just leave a message at this number and we’ll take care of it.” He sat back in his chair, licking his lips as he poured himself another shot. His hands trembled, not bad enough to spill the bourbon, but enough to notice.
I stood up, took a step closer to him and sat on the edge of the desk. I poked a finger into the bundles of cash he’d so casually thrown there. “You’ve got a problem, Wexler. Right now it’s your problem, not mine. I assume you want to keep it that way.” His head bobbled like he forgot he had a neck. I picked up two bundles of bills and slipped them into my pocket. “Good. I’m glad we agree.” I folded the telephone number he’d written in half and handed it to Norman. “We’ll be in touch, Wexler.” He watched us leave and I heard glass clanking behind the closed door.
In the casino, the party droned on, louder and wilder than before. The sultry canary chirped out a lively rendition of “Jingle Jangle Jingle” as the chaos of dissipation and revelry roared to drown her out. I spied Gottlieb watching us through the miasma of smoke that hung in the room. He took off his spectacles and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief, then stuck them back on his nose.
As I started to approach him, he gave me a quick shake of the head and aimed his eyes toward a nearby poker game. There, two men stood along the wall as if they had a distinct interest of the outcome of the game, but they had their eyes aimed toward Norman and me. They stood stiffly erect, hands held together in front of them. I slipped into a winning smile
and gave them a little wave as we continued toward the door. Neither of them smiled.
I snatched Norman’s hand and dragged him down the stairs.
“Kissy? Why are we running?”
“Shut up and move.” When we finally reached the bottom of the stairs, we found a whole platoon of half-drunk krauts smoking cigars and chewing the fat on the street. We shouldered our way through them and just as we made it into the clear a youngish blond man dressed in a pristine black suit with a cap stopped us with a bow.
“Fräulein Weber? I have instructions to drive you wherever you want to go.” He gestured to a gleaming automobile parked on the street.
Norman and I exchanged a quick glance. “No thanks.” I gave Norman a tug and started down the sidewalk again.
The young chauffeur stepped in front of us again. “Please, with Herr Gottlieb’s compliments.”
“Herr Gottlieb?” I looked over my shoulder and saw the two torpedoes Gottlieb had indicated just emerging from the enclosed staircase. They scanned the crowd but hadn’t latched onto us yet.
The chauffeur bowed again. “Yes, ma’am, Herr Gottlieb sends his regards and offers you the use of his car this evening.”
“Great!” I leapt for the car with Norman’s scarecrow frame moving too slowly behind me. I pulled the door closed behind him and shouted at the driver. “Go!” The young chauffeur fired up the engine and the machine surged away from the Bremen Street Club, leaving the predator krauts behind us. But not far enough behind.
I watched another car tear away from the curb and pull out behind us. “Hey, Jack! We’re being followed! Get this tin can moving’!”
He squinted into the rearview mirror and scowled. “They won’t catch us! You’d better hold onto something!”
He stomped on the accelerator and the massive car charged forward. With an almost reckless abandon, he weaved the car in and out of traffic, dodged streetcars and ignored traffic lights, but still the pursuers hung on.
With a sudden crack, the rear windshield shattered. Norman seemed confused and turned around to look at it. “Huh?”
“Dammit, Norman! Get down! They’re shooting at us!” He hunkered down on the floor, but I pulled out my own pistol. The car bumped and swerved as I tried to aim at the car behind us. I squeezed the trigger and hit the pavement behind their car. My second shot hit the driver’s mirror but didn’t slow him down. Another bullet punched into our fender. “They’re getting closer!”
Our driver swore in both English and German, then swung over the wheel in a turn so tight the tires screeched, and the rear end of the car seemed to leave the ground and fly around the corner. I peeked out the shattered rear window and saw the other car came squalling around the corner, pursued by a black-and-white.
“Cops! Now we’ve got cops!” The driver manhandled the steering wheel and spun onto Gilbert Avenue, heading toward Eden Park. The car’s engine protested as we raced uphill. Gunshots crackled around us, one shattering the front windshield. I popped up and fired off a couple of shots, not hitting much of anything, but slowing down their pursuit.
I decided to take my time and aim at the driver behind us. For a moment, time seemed to slow down, and I had him. My gunsights lined up with his heart and I started squeezing the trigger. Our driver swerved suddenly, and I was thrown against the side of the car. My gun dropped on the floor of the car and skittered away from me.
Our pursuers missed the turn and sped away from us, followed by not just one, but two, black-and-whites. Our driver parked the car on a quiet side street. He turned around in his seat to see us. “Did you both survive?”
Norman patted his chest, looking for bullet holes. Finding none, he turned to me. “I’m fine, how are you?”
“Yeah.” I leaned toward the driver. “Who were those men? Why were they shooting at us?”
The driver turned around. “I don’t know.” He pulled the car into the street and drove as calmly as if we were Okie sightseers on a Sunday drive.
“Fine. Drop us off at Union Terminal.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not, especially not now. Gottlieb wants to talk to you, and if you want to keep breath in your lungs, you’ll want to talk to him too.”
I grabbed my pistol off the floor and pressed it into the back of his neck. “Union Terminal. Now.”
“No.” He drove on a placidly as before.
I blasted out a long, exasperated sigh and put my pistol in my pocket. “Well, hurry up. I need a cigarette.”
Chapter Eleven
The driver parked outside the Aristocrat Hotel. He introduced himself as Johannes Ruger, personal driver to Karl Gottlieb. He opened the door for us but bypassed the desk, heading instead for the elevator. The spacious lobby held several benches, some rather overripe lounge chairs, and exactly one person; an older man with a white hair and mustache reading a newspaper with apparently little interest.
The elevator operator turned out to be a dwarf standing on a crate. “Where to?”
Ruger clapped him on the shoulder. “Four, please, Mikey.”
The operator slammed the cage shut and gave a pull on the knob that started the lift in motion. It clanked and banged its way up the shaft, but the operator didn’t seem disturbed by the noise. In fact, he smiled and chatted Ruger up. “Have a pleasant day, Mr. Ruger?”
“Not really.”
“That’s too bad. Did you lose the auction?”
“No, no. That went fine. Somebody broke the windshield of my uncle’s car, that’s all.” He shook his head sadly. “What is this town coming to?”
The operator clicked his tongue. “That’s a shame. That’s a swell car he has. Wish I had one like it.”
Norman squeezed my upper arm, and then laughed as if the dwarf had made the Joke of the Year. The little man shot an unconcerned glance up at him and continued. “Yessir, I’d like one of those great big Chevrolet sedans.” Norman nearly collapsed with mirth, which he didn’t even try to hold in. The operator’s glacial calm never wavered. “I think it’d be a fine thing to take a drive out of town where you could really open her up. You know?” The elevator lurched to a stop. “Fourth floor.” He opened the cage and we stepped out. I tipped him a half dollar and dragged Norman’s laughing carcass out behind me.
Ruger led us down the hall, pulled a key out of his pocket, and unlocked the door to room 408. The room turned out to be a suite with adequate, if less than opulent, furnishings. Norman plopped down on a sofa and leaned his head back, focusing his eyes intently on the ceiling.
I sat in a chair across from him. “Are you all right, Norman?”
“I don’t know. People don’t usually shoot at me.”
I pulled out my cigarettes and searched through my pockets for matches. “You’re not perforated, so call it a good first time.”
He raised his head to look at me. “First time? It’d better be the last time!”
I struck a match and set fire to my snipe. “No guarantees, partner.”
He leaned his head back again, closing his eyes this time.
Ruger came from another room and sat in the other chair. “I’ve ordered a pot of coffee; it’ll be up shortly.”
I watched him as he lit a stubby cigar. “Where have we met, Ruger?”
He shrugged. “Have we met?” He looked me up and down. “I’d think I’d remember. You stand out a little.”
I spat smoke at him. “Do I? When will Gottlieb get here?”
“When he can. I don’t know exactly when.”
“Fine. Now tell me, what’s going on? Who were those men?”
He shrugged again. “How would I know? I’m just a chauffeur.”
“You’ve got some fancy moves behind the wheel.”
He grinned a grin that shaved a decade off his age. “That’s why I’m a chauffeur.”
The coffee came, and we waited. Norman nodded off within a half-hour, but the coffee and whiskey fire in my guts conspired to keep me awake. Ruger flipped through a ragged copy of Black M
ask and, other than an occasional chuckle, kept quiet.
At just after five in the morning, a knock sounded at the door. Ruger opened it and Gottlieb entered the room. His bald head glistened. “Ah! Fräulein Weber, it is nice to see you again!”
“Gottlieb.” I gave him a nod. “So how about you tell me what the hell is going on?”
He removed his overcoat and took a seat on the sofa beside the snoring Norman. “An interesting way to begin a conversation, I think, since you are definitely not Eva Weber. I know this because there is no Eva Weber. Herr Weber has only sons.” He adjusted his spectacles. “So, who are you?”
I chuckled around my smoke. “How long have you known that?”
“From the moment you said it.” He smiled, amused.
“Then why keep up the act?”
“It served my purposes. It has been an effective diversion.”
I gave him a blast of smoke. “Glad I could help.”
“Yes, vell now. Who are you really?”
I leaned toward him. “You first. Who were those hatchet men that chased us, and drilled holes in the car? Friends of yours?” I buried my cigarette in the ashtray and lit another one. “I got a problem with being shot at.”
He watched me for a minute or two before he spoke. “You are an obstinate voman, fräulein. Very vell. Those men who shot at you and my car vork for Richter.”
“Richter again.”
Gottlieb’s eyebrows rose. “You know Herr Richter?”
“Not exactly, his name just keeps coming up. Braun mentioned him, so did Wexler. I hear he’s active.”
“Ja, he is. Gestapo. Or perhaps Schutzstaffel. It matters little, he is a spy, that’s all that really matters.”
“I also heard he’s missing.”
“You hear much. Ja, he is missing. Wexler told you this?”
I nodded.
“Why were you there tonight? Going there vass very dangerous.” When I didn’t answer, he cocked his head and watched smoke rise from my cigarette. He cleared his throat and started again. “Now, fräulein, I ask you again, who are you?”
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