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by George Harmon Coxe

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  George Harmon Coxe

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  Open Road Integrated Media ebook

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER ONE

  FOR THE PAST few weeks Larry Palmer had been on general assignment for the Morning Bulletin, and he was working on a filler at three o’clock on this Wednesday afternoon when Brooks, the day city editor, called across the room.

  ‘Picture contest, Larry’, he said, and gestured toward a woman who was threading her way between the desks, a piece of newspaper in one hand.

  Palmer pushed his chair back and stood up.

  ‘Hello’, he said, and smiled at her.

  ‘How do you do?’ she said in an accented voice, and placed on the desk a half-page that had been torn from that day’s Bulletin.

  He arranged a chair for her and asked her to sit down. Then he examined the four-column cut of a photograph which had been reproduced near the top of the page. What he saw was a picture taken the day before on a downtown street that showed, against the background of a plate-glass store front, a dozen or so pedestrians on the march. The face of one had been circled in white, and in the box above the picture was a statement which said that if the person whose face was circled would come to the Bulletin between the hours of twelve noon and four on this particular date, he would be presented with a cheque for one hundred dollars. If no one claimed the money, it would be carried over and added to the prize of the following day.

  An old circulation gimmick, it had recently been resurrected by the Bulletin as part of a promotion plan to offset the vigorous drive of the Morning Standard to increase its circulation at the Bulletin’s expense. Not everyone was sold on the idea, but it was decided to give it a try on the theory that no one knew where or when the picture would be taken, and that non-readers would buy the Bulletin, at least during the life of the contest, in the hope of cashing in. Larry Palmer, as one of the newer men on the staff, had drawn the assignment of interviewing the claimants as part of his continuing indoctrination, and now he sat down and looked at the woman who had come to claim the prize.

  About thirty, he thought; maybe a little more. Pleasant-looking, but plain and a little too thin. A grey dress, a thin grey coat, a grey felt hat, all lacking character and distinction but clean and neat and well cared for. No makeup at all, which accented her plainness, no polish on the trimmed nails; hands that were well shaped and capable-looking but no longer soft; the hands of one who apparently used them in some manual occupation.

  When he said: ‘This is your lucky day’, she smiled at him, and that helped her appearance because her teeth were white and nicely proportioned. When she gave a small bob of her head but did not speak, he reached for some copy paper and a pencil.

  ‘Could I have your name, please?’

  ‘Ethel Kovalik.’

  ‘From around here?’

  ‘From Patterson, New Jersey.’

  ‘Oh? Visiting friends? Sightseeing?’

  ‘N-no.’ She hesitated, her glance straying. ‘I—I come to look for my husband.’

  Palmer looked at her again, his interest quickening as it came to him that this might be one of those stories worth more than the usual stick or two. Or was this just another of the countless cases of the husband getting fed up and purposely disappearing?

  ‘How long since you’ve seen him?’

  ‘In 1946. In Germany. He was an American soldier.’ She opened her bag and took out a snapshot and a negative about two and a quarter by three and a quarter inches. She put them on the desk. ‘This was just after we were married’, she added, an odd wistfulness colouring her voice. ‘It is the only picture I have.’

  It was a beach picture, the sort taken by the thousands every summer: a slim, smiling girl, a tall, lanky boy with close-cropped hair and angular face, arms folded across a chest in which the breath was obviously being held. The only thing that marked it as foreign was the boy’s trunks—if they could be called trunks. Diaper-shaped and much too scanty, they would have caused the owner to be banished from most public beaches at home, but Palmer had seen the same thing in the south of France as well as in Holland. Only by re-examining the girl could he see the resemblance; what the boy might look like now he could not imagine.

  ‘What makes you think he’s here now?’ he asked.

  ‘A friend of mine in New Jersey was here two weeks ago. He thought he saw Guy. I had not taken my vacation, so I come here too.’ She smiled again, a new brightness in the brown eyes. ‘Once I thought I saw him. In a little open car on that street between the two parks.’

  ‘Charles Street’, Palmer said.

  ‘But I am not sure’, she added, the smile fading. ‘Still—’

  ‘Well, look,’ Palmer said, his notes forgotten for the moment, ‘if he was in the service, the War Department must have some record of him. Have you checked?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But the record does not help’. She hesitated again, eyes downcast now as she continued. ‘He was in some trouble. He was arrested. That I knew. I did not know he escaped until they come to me and questioned me and began to watch the house.’

  Palmer got the rest of the story very quickly. The brief week of happiness, the final disappearance of Guy Kovalik, the birth of a daughter he had never known, now staying with the grandparents in Western Germany. Two years ago a quota number had been given Ethel and she had come to stay with an aunt in New Jersey; she had a job in an appliance factory in Patterson; in time she would become a citizen.

  ‘And you—’ Palmer hesitated in his phrasing of the question. ‘You want to find your husband because you’re still in love with him?’

  ‘I don’t know. How can I say?’ She sighed and fingered the torn page. ‘There is another man who wants to marry me. But I do not know if I am still married. I would like to find Guy, to talk with him. It would be much better that way. If I do not find him, why then—’ She shrugged to punctuate the thought.

  ‘Maybe we can help’, Palmer said. ‘Maybe he’ll see the picture’, he added, even as the thought came to him that a man listed as a deserter would be unlikely to give himself up now. ‘Maybe we could run this picture’—he indicated the snapshot—‘if you’ll leave the negative with me. What’s your address here?’

  She named a number on Martin Street and then put out her hand. ‘Why do you wish to know this?’

  ‘We’ll do a story about—’

  ‘Please, no.’

  ‘But we always have a little piece about the people who win the hundred.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head d
eterminedly. ‘The hundred dollars will help me. But if there must be a story with my address, then I cannot take it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there is another man I am afraid of … He is in that picture too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I will show you.’

  She straightened out the page, but Palmer reached into a drawer and took out a copy of the print from which the cut had been made. ‘This is clearer’, he said. ‘Show me.’

  The man she pointed to was at the left side of the print, about three paces behind Ethel Kovalik, and at the instant of exposure was looking straight at the camera, a tallish, lean-bodied man with rimless glasses and a hostile look.

  ‘He is from my old village in Germany,’ she said, ‘now in the Eastern Zone. He grew up there, he and another man who may also be here with him now.’

  Speaking earnestly, she hesitated now as Palmer put down the pencil and peered at her. As though recognizing the scepticism in his gaze, she hurried on.

  ‘He was following me. He must have been. And he did not want his picture taken. He argued with the photographer. I did not even know the picture had been taken until I heard this disturbance, and then when I turned and saw him I hurried away while he was still talking.… It is true’, she said. ‘Your photographer called to the policeman on the corner.’

  ‘All right’, Palmer said, still unconvinced. ‘Start at the beginning. What’s the guy’s name?’

  ‘Henkel. Kurt Henkel. He and this friend of his from the village—a man named Muller—were taken prisoner by the Russians. They were not returned until many years after the war was over. By that time the Communists ran the village, and these two helped. Those who spoke out against the régime were badly treated. Some were sent away, others brutally beaten by these two.’

  ‘What were they, police?’

  ‘They worked for the police but not in uniform. All were afraid of them. I do not know what you would call them—’

  ‘Here we’d call them thugs or hoodlums. Muscle-men.’ Palmer thought it over. ‘So why should this Henkel be following you? How long have you been in town?’

  ‘Three days.’

  ‘How did he know you were here?’

  ‘I saw him. Yesterday noon … I will explain’, she added when he started to interrupt. ‘This room on Martin Street is not far from the Bond Hotel. Yesterday noon I went there for something to eat. It was as I was finishing that I saw him. He was a waiter there and I recognized him and he must have recognized me. Why else would he follow me? Why else would he be behind me on the street if he did not follow me; for it was only a half-hour later that the picture was taken.’

  Palmer leaned back and reached for his cigarettes. When she refused his offer he lit one and stared out the window at the building across the street, the reporter part of his mind rejecting the story even as the protected, personal area of his thoughts remained impressed by the very earnestness of her manner and words.

  Suppose, he asked himself, the man was who she said he was. Why would he follow her? To find out where she lived, obviously. If he was afraid of her and wished to be sure she remained silent, it was likely that he was in the country illegally; it was also likely that if he had been a Communist muscle-man in Germany he was still so employed here when the occasion demanded and the orders came down from above. Still—

  ‘Look, Mrs. Kovalik’, he said. ‘I’ve got to write a little story about you. We do it with all the winners. That’s my job and you might as well collect the hundred dollars. I’ll keep your address out of it. Maybe, if your husband sees it—we usually run another picture of the winner accepting the money—he’ll get in touch with us … About this Henkel fellow, here’s what I think you ought to do.’

  And he thought: This should chase her out. If the story is a phony dreamed up for some other reason to keep her address out of the paper, she’ll never do what I tell her.

  ‘You’re going to be a citizen’, he said. ‘You like this country.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Then you should want to help it when you can. If this pair is dangerous, the Federal Bureau of Investigation should know about them. I’ve got a friend down there. Go down and talk to him.’ He tore off a piece of paper and wrote out an address. ‘The office is at 10 Post Office Square’, he said. ‘Ask for Mr. Hansen and tell him I sent you … I could phone him and tell him you’re coming, if you like.’

  Ethel Kovalik looked doubtfully at the pencilled address as she came slowly to her feet. She shook her head. ‘No’, she said. ‘I can go there. And to get the hundred dollars there must be a story?’ she asked.

  Palmer nodded and reached for the telephone. When he had the studio on the third floor he said: ‘Another hundred-buck winner on the way to the cashier, if you want a picture.’ He quickly filled in a form, handed it to the woman, and told her where to go.

  ‘You do not have to print my address?’ she said.

  ‘No. But keep in touch with us in case anyone calls in about you or the picture.’

  He watched her walk across the room towards the lifts. When she had gone he sat down and rolled some paper into the typewriter, and it was then that he uncovered the snapshot and negative she had shown him. Examining them once more, he thought about calling the cashier’s office before she left the building; then he changed his mind. He was not sure why. He did not think Brooks would print that old picture, but he intended to ask, and in any event if she wanted the original she would be back. For some reason he did not bother to analyse, he found himself hoping that she would return …

  Normally Larry Palmer would have tossed the story on Brooks’s desk and gone about his business; this time he waited because he had an idea there would be some questions, and in this he was right.

  ‘No address’, Brooks said almost at once.

  ‘No.’

  ‘We always print the address. The readers like to know.’

  ‘She didn’t want it printed’, Palmer said, and then he told the story as briefly as he could, filling in the parts he had not written.

  Brooks leaned back in his chair, a faint smile working on his lips as Palmer continued, his grey eyes narrowed, intent and sceptical. He had been in the business for thirty years, though he was not old, and on the job his thoughts and reactions followed a pattern which time and experience had proved practical. He was not hard-boiled in the old-fashioned sense, but he had heard nearly everything and he was adept at assessing correctly a story, a complaint, or a publicity man’s pitch.

  ‘You believe that, hunh?’ he said finally.

  ‘Why would she dream up a thing like that if part of it wasn’t true?’

  Brooks was very patient about it. He took his time. He said: ‘It’s the sort of story that’s simple to dream up if you don’t care how it sounds. Everybody’s Communist-conscious these days. Three weeks ago we indicted six top party members for conspiracy right here in town, remember? This dame says she’s being followed, so why not by a Communist? How do you know she’s from New Jersey, or a refugee, or from Germany?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘The only thing we know for sure is that she doesn’t want the address printed, right? There could be a million reasons why she don’t want it printed. She had to give you a reason, so she gave one she thought you’d accept. It’s a good story, especially the husband part.’

  He glanced at the snapshot and negative Palmer gave him. ‘I don’t think we’ll use this without knowing more about her. It could be trouble for us. Hang on to them.’ He looked up. ‘Also, I think we’ll use the address.’

  ‘I promised her we wouldn’t.’

  Brooks’s eyes opened, the look in them saying plainly that Palmer had no business making any such promise. Instead of saying so, he paused a moment in reflection. studying his reporter and remembering that he liked him personally as well as his attitude towards his work.

  Twenty-eight—or was it twenty-nine?—an Ivy Leaguer, with two years of experience on some
small-town paper an uncle owned and nearly two years with the Bulletin. Still without a special assignment, he had filled in during vacations and leaves at Police Headquarters, the Courts, City Hall, and he was in the business to stay, though Brooks was not sure exactly why. A good-looking kid but not handsome, with brown hair cut moderately short, serious brown eyes, and a nice slant to his jaw. Suits well tailored and reasonably conservative. A lean, flat-muscled body and a way of moving that suggested a nice co-ordination and the ability to handle himself should he bump into trouble, his aggressiveness the quiet kind backed by the persistence and determination a good reporter needed.

  Brooks nodded and picked up his pencil, his grin hidden. ‘Okay’, he said flatly. ‘We’ll leave off the number and just say Martin Street.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be much protection if she was in danger’, Palmer said flatly. ‘It’s only a block long.’

  ‘The Martin Street stays,’ Brooks said, ‘and I’ll give you even money this dame don’t even show at the F.B.I. Make it a bottle of beer.’

  ‘You’ve got a bet.’

  Brooks made the correction and tossed the sheet over to the copy desk, and with that, one of the telephones rang. He began to write even as he answered, and seconds later he flipped a lever on the desk switchboard and spoke to the studio.

  ‘Part of the ceiling fell in on some cafeteria customers’, he said and gave a lower Washington Street address. ‘Palmer’s on his way down.’

  He offered the slip of paper. ‘Pick up a photographer at the front counter, Larry,’ he said, ‘and get rolling.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE ‘BULLETIN’ PUBLISHED both morning and evening editions and ever since he had come to work Larry Palmer had been on the morning side. Recently he had been working on the twelve-noon-to-eight-thirty shift, partly because of the assignment no one else wanted—the interviewing of the daily contest winners.

  During the baseball season the Morning Bulletin expanded its bulldog edition, which in other months was only a mail edition, to include a so-called Sports Final which hit the streets at eight-thirty in the evening and contained the scores of all afternoon games. On this particular day in late September Palmer had been busy right until the moment the office boy came around with the first copies of the Sports Final, and this reminded him that it was time to go home.