“Want a beer?” I asked.
“Maybe later.” He looked like his dog just died.
“I know you don’t want to see her,” I said, “but if there’s something fishy going on, we have a duty to find out. And if there isn’t, well, the Countess never needs to know.”
In silence, he pulled out a pack of Fatimas and offered me one. I took it. We both lit up and watched the kids, who were now arguing about whether the Detroit Tigers or the Boston Red Sox had better pitchers. It almost came to a fist-fight, but someone changed the subject to the Yankees. Everyone hated the Yankees.
I glanced at my watch. Almost 7:00. I stubbed out my cigarette, and Randy did the same—the smoke seemed to have steadied his nerves. Then I closed the hood of my truck, finished my beer, and wiped my hands clean. I put the rag and the empty beer can in the cab.
A six-inch piece of copper pipe sat on the passenger seat, left over from a small job I’d done for one of the neighbors that afternoon. I grabbed it and stuck it in my pocket. I didn’t have my service rifle any more, but I didn’t want to go in defenseless. Semper Fi.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I want to get it over with.”
“Remember, spring the old chauffeur’s name on her. Try to catch her off guard.”
“I know. I got it.”
We might have been on a death-march, from his expression. But he matched me step for step, and in a minute we were in front of Madame Anastasia’s house. I climbed the steps and rang the bell.
A second later, the door swung open, and Madame Anastasia stood there: a heavyset woman in her late 50s, with dark hair, dark eyes, and yellow-toothed smile. She was dressed like the gypsy in The Wolf Man.
“Please, come in,” she said, bowing slightly and stepping back. She had an accent similar to the Countess’s.
I followed her into a darkened front hall. On the left, a staircase led to the second floor. On the right stood a closed door to what I imagined would be the parlor. Dark red drapes covered all the walls, and three red candles burned on a table against at the far side of the room. A sickly sweet smell I couldn’t identify hung in the air—herbs or incense of some kind, no doubt.
“This is the friend I told you about,” I said. I took off my cap. “Randall Carter.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Randy said. He took off his fedora, too.
“Young seeker of wisdom,” she said. She smiled up at his face and patted his arm. “It is two dollars for the first reading.”
“Two dollars!” he said. Randy looked ready to throw up. And I didn’t think he was acting.
“Here.” I pulled out my wallet and gave Madame Anastasia a pair of bills before Randy could object.
“This way, young sir,” she said, taking his arm and drawing him toward the door. It swung open at her touch, revealing a room lit by half a dozen candles. A small table with two chairs sat in the middle. She steered him to one of the chairs while motioning me to a bench beside the door. Apparently I would be permitted to stay and observe.
I sat heavily. The pipe in my pocket thumped heavily on the wooden seat, then dug painfully into my leg. Shifting to one side, I pulled it out.
“You are grieving,” she said to Randy. “I feel your pain.”
“Yes,” Randy said. “I—”
She raised one finger to silence him. “First,” she said, settling herself across from him, “you must tell me the name of this dear departed relative.”
“Fyodor,” he said. “Fyodor Klonski.”
She tensed. “What was that name?”
“Uncle Fyodor. Fyodor Klonski—”
She shifted, and from my position, I saw her hand dart under the table. A finger stabbed upward—pushing a button? Over our heads, footsteps thumped on the second floor. A distant door slammed.
I leaped to my feet. “What did you do?” I demanded. I pointed at her with the pipe. “I saw your hand—you did something under the table!”
She leaned back and folded her arms. “Who sent you?” she demanded. “How do you know my Fyodor’s name? What is this game?”
Randy said, “We think Fyodor Klonski’s dead. The
Countess—”
A heavy tread sounded outside the door. It burst open, and a bald-headed man rushed in. I saw a pistol in his hand. Without thinking, I at it with my pipe.
Bone crunched, and he dropped the pistol, howling in pain. It hit the floor and discharged.
Baldy tried to turn, but I kicked his feet out from under him. Randy tackled him a second later, then sat on his back and pinned his arms.
Madame Anastasia started for the pistol, but I leaped forward and scooped it up first. A German Mauser. I cocked the trigger and backed into the doorway.
“Let him up, Randy,” I said. I aimed for Baldy’s chest.
Randy rose a little unsteadily and staggered to my side.
“Up against the wall,” I said to Baldy. “Mach schnell!” It wasn’t Russian, but it was as close as I could come.
He obeyed—sullenly, it seemed to me. Randy sagged against the wall. Then he slid to a seated position on the floor.
“What’s wrong?” I demanded.
“I—I think he winged me.” His left hand glistened in the candlelight, dark and slick with blood. Adrenaline must have kept him going.
Madame Anastasia stared at us. “My Fyodor—why do you think he is dead?” she demanded. “Tell me!”
“I’m a plumber,” I told her. “I went to the Countess’s house to clear a drain, and I found bits of gray hair and scalp, plus a tooth with a gold filling, caught in the drain. He was the only man in the house. Suddenly the Countess says he’s retired and gone to Florida. You do the math.”
She bit her lip, looked away. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“You have a phone?” I asked her. I hadn’t seen one on the way in.
She didn’t answer. Probably did, but I didn’t have time to search for it.
“You up for guarding them?” I asked Randy.
“Yeah. Give me that pistol.”
I passed him the Mauser, and he held the grip in his right hand, bracing the barrel on his knee. It pointed unwaveringly at Baldy.
“Can you hold on for a few minutes?” I asked. “There’s a police station a block away.”
“Go!” he said through gritted teeth. His eyes were bright in the flickering glow of the candles. “Just—make it—fast!”
I ran.
* * * *
They called us heroes and patriots in the newspapers. We got our pictures in the The Brooklyn Eagle, The New York World-Telegram, The New York Times, and a dozen other papers. Most of them ran banner headlines like “Local Boys Smash Spy Ring” or “Brooklyn Boys Nab Ruskie Spies.” Never mind that Randy lived in Manhattan.
It seems Madame Anastasia had been pumping her clients for American secrets . . . not just A-Bomb stuff, but anything of interest to the Commies. And she turned over everything she learned to the Countess, whose history—from escaping the Bolsheviks to fleeing Nazi occupation in Paris—had been invented wholesale for public consumption.
This time the Countess didn’t escape by the skin of her teeth. The Feds nabbed her in her brownstone, and they found the code-book exactly where Randy and I had left it. None of the spies were talking, but the Feds put together a pretty good case. They figured the Countess and Baldy murdered the chauffeur in the bathroom. Apparently Klonski and Madame Anastasia fell in love and planned to quit the spy game. Of course, the Countess couldn’t let that happen. She lured Klonski to her bathroom on some pretext, then a quick blow with the meat hammer finished him off.
No one ever found the body. I figure Baldy must have taken the car and buried Klonski on Long Island, or maybe over in New Jersey.
* * * *
Randy lost a lot of blood, but never was in any real danger. By the time he got o
ut of the hospital, he found a dozen job offers waiting. He ended up driving for one of the Rockefellers.
And as for me . . . well, Geller & Son uses a real appointment book now. The Rockefellers have a lot of houses in Manhattan. Between Randy’s referrals and the write-ups I got as a local hero, I have all the business I can handle.
THE END
A One-Pipe Problem Page 2