Top Assignment

by George Harmon Coxe

  ‘Walter,’ he said, nodding towards the managing editor but speaking to Palmer, ‘has passed along the story you gave him last night and I wonder if you’d repeat your conversation with Mrs. Kovalik for Mr. Metzger.’

  Palmer did the best he could, and when he finished Austin turned to Metzger.

  ‘Does that coincide with your own ideas about why your niece came here?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you know that it was also her intention to try to buy a false birth certificate for someone?’

  ‘No, I did not. I myself have been in this country for over fifteen years. A naturalized citizen. I have my papers.’

  ‘You don’t even know who gave her the names of Leo Flynn and John Destler?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Austin frowned and fingered the sidebows of his glasses. ‘You saw the picture we printed, and the man your niece said was following her was pointed out to you. You don’t know him? … Never saw him before?’

  ‘No, sir. About that part I know nothing.’

  ‘All right. One thing more. Your niece was interested in some man who worked with her. Do you know him?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A fine young man.’

  ‘Could I have his name?’

  Metzger gave it and Austin wrote it down. So did Hansen, though not quite so openly.

  ‘Could your niece have been asking about birth certificates on his account?’ Austin continued.

  ‘I do not think so. I understood he was American-born.’

  ‘You’ve no idea about this?’

  ‘None.’ Metzger spread one hand and then picked up his hat. ‘It could be anyone where she worked. Some friend. Perhaps another girl. Ethel would always do a favour for a person, even a stranger. I believe this friend knew about the birth certificates that were once sold, and learned Ethel was coming here where these men were, and asked her to find out if it would be possible to buy one more. I can think of no other explanation.’

  ‘All right.’ Austin nodded. ‘We will arrange for your room and meals’, he said, mentioning a hotel, ‘until the medical examiner’s office releases the body. When arrangements have been made, come and see me again.’

  Metzger stopped at the door. ‘Thank you, Mr. Austin’, he said. ‘I do not think it is your fault that this happened. Ethel was a good girl. What I do not understand is—why?’

  ‘We’re going to try to find out, Mr. Metzger’, Austin said. ‘Make no mistake about that.’

  When the door closed he looked over at Hansen. ‘Is there anything you’d like to ask Larry?’

  ‘What I’d like is his story of what he knows about this fellow in the picture.’ Hansen came over to the desk and picked up a print of the original photograph showing Ethel Kovalik and Kurt Henkel.

  Austin said: ‘All right, Larry’, and Palmer began to talk. He repeated Ethel Kovalik’s fears and spoke of the two men the landlady on Martin Street had described. He told of the inquiry he had made at the Bond Hotel, of his talk with Leo Flynn, of the incident at Destler’s house as given to him by Janet Evans.

  ‘Did you show the police the picture?’ Hansen asked when the story had been completed.

  ‘No’, Larry said.

  ‘Any special reason why you didn’t?’

  ‘Neilson wasn’t very co-operative’, Palmer said. ‘And I thought I ought to talk to you and Mr. Austin—at least someone in the office—before I popped off. If the Kovalik woman was telling the truth, it sounded as if Henkel and Muller—and I don’t even know what he looks like—had some Communist hook-up. That angle seemed more like a job for the F.B.I. than the police. I thought I’d better be sure.’

  Hansen made no reply, but simply sat waiting, his expression non-committal, as though his interest at this point was in listening rather than in voicing any opinion. After a glance in his direction, Austin spoke to Palmer.

  ‘Any ideas or suggestions about the next step?’ he asked.

  Palmer thought it over. ‘That’s a good picture of Henkel’, he said. ‘Why not blow up the head and slap it in the paper? We could say he was wanted—we wouldn’t have to tell the reason if we didn’t want to give out the truth—and maybe offer a small reward for information. That way a couple hundred thousand people would be keeping an eye open.’

  He hesitated and said: ‘Or we could keep it out of the paper and just tell the police. They could copy the photograph. By this afternoon every man in the department could have a print. That way Henkel wouldn’t know they were looking for him.’

  Austin looked at Hansen. ‘What’s your reaction?’

  ‘We’re going to ask you to sit on it.’

  Austin toyed with his glasses. He glanced at Kelly, who shrugged faintly and remained silent.

  ‘We’ve sat on stories for the F.B.I. before’, Austin said finally. ‘For other government agencies too. We’re prepared to do it again, but we like to know why.’

  Hansen lit a cigarette, a sturdy, conservatively dressed young man with glasses and a quiet manner that was purposely deceptive.

  ‘We’re doing a lot of things we can’t talk about’, he said. ‘Here and all over the country. In this particular instance your interests and ours are identical. As I understand it, you want to find out who killed the Kovalik woman. You’re not interested in what agency turns up the killer so long as he’s found and brought to trial. Maybe you feel some responsibility for printing her picture and the follow-up story. I read that editorial in the Standard this morning and so did a lot of other people, and I can understand why you’d like to see this thing through. But we’re not interested in murder, as such; it’s not our job.’

  He took time out to glance at his listeners and then said: ‘You know about the six Communists who were indicted a few weeks back for conspiracy. We were instrumental in digging them out. We’ve got the Commies on the run now because while they’ve been infiltrating a lot of respectable organizations, we’ve been infiltrating them, sometimes with our own men, more often with misguided citizens who were once party members and have finally recognized the stupidity of their actions and now want to help the country instead of conspiring against it. It’s still not a simple matter because we have to shy away from making premature arrests; it’s a continuing struggle.’

  ‘I think we understand that’, Austin said.

  ‘All right. Now from what I’ve heard, I’m ready to accept the Kovalik woman’s story about Henkel and Muller—at least for now. She gave the background—there have been plenty of German prisoners who sold out to the Communists—and if we accept the story, we’ve got to assume that they were sent over here for a purpose. They got jobs as waiters, a perfect cover because most waiters seem to have accents and no one is suspicious on that account. They have plenty of time off; they are in an excellent position to listen in on all sorts of conversations. But these two were more than that. They were bully-boys when she knew them in Germany and it’s a good bet they’re using the same methods here.’

  ‘You mean they could be members of the M.V.D. or whatever the initials are?’ Austin said.

  ‘I don’t think so. The M.V.D. are the élite. They are smoother operators, more polished. If they have to kill, they are more likely to do it with poison or some ingenious and less obvious instrument. They are not hoodlums. I have a hunch that these two we’re talking about are. If so, their job it to keep the members in line and to terrorize those who break away and turn against the party; that’s why we have to be so careful. Such incidents happen all the time, but they don’t always hit the news columns.’

  Hansen leaned forward, his voice still quiet. ‘A few months ago there was the case of an anti-Communist lecturer who was waylaid one night and beaten unmercifully. There was an ex-Commie agent who was working for us that spent three months in a hospital and will always walk with a limp. We still don’t know who’s doing such jobs in this area, but it begins to look as if Henkel and Muller might be our boys. If so, we want a line on them, not only because we’d like to put a cr
imp in such operations, but because once we nail them we may be able to find out who’s giving the orders. It could be someone already under suspicion—and there are plenty we can’t move in on yet—and it may be someone we don’t even suspect.’

  ‘All right’, Austin said. ‘You present a pretty convincing case. You’re afraid that if we print Henkel’s picture he and his pal will go underground.’

  ‘I’m sure they will’, Hansen said. ‘As it is, they won’t be waiting on table at the Bond any more. Whether they killed Ethel Kovalik or not—Henkel obviously recognized her and would want to keep her from talking—they know the landlady saw them and will tell the police. What they don’t know is that Ethel Kovalik had already told her story to Larry and pointed out Henkel’s picture. Reprint that now with a story and they’ll disappear, probably to turn up in Chicago or Los Angeles or Mexico City.’

  Austin took a breath and looked over at his managing editor. ‘I guess we sit on it.’

  ‘I guess so’, Kelly said.

  ‘The story too’, Hansen said.

  ‘The story too’, Austin said. ‘But we’re still going to get that killer if we can, Hansen. Why shouldn’t the police have the picture and—’

  Hansen interrupted, still quiet. ‘Can you say there are no Communists in the police department?’

  Austin straightened in his chair. ‘Are there?’ he demanded.

  Hansen allowed himself a smile and remained pointedly silent.

  ‘All right’, Austin said. ‘I withdraw the question.’

  ‘Let me tell you about another cop’, Hansen said. ‘This one was in New York. A lieutenant. One of the top ones in all examinations. First on the list for captains. What we call a sleeper. Competent, efficient, never the slightest indication of any Communist sympathies or connections—until another agency got a lead one day and started checking. It took a long time, but it was there, and he was called up for a hearing. He never showed up, never bothered to collect his pension money. That was a couple of years ago and he’s still missing.

  ‘For all I know,’ he said, ‘this guy was the only one on the force. In this case one is too many. Just one wrong cop with that picture will be enough to warn Henkel. If that happens, he and his pal will be gone, just like the New York lieutenant.’

  He stood up and put on his hat. He walked over to the door and stood waiting with his hand on the knob.

  ‘We’ll play along’, Austin said. ‘If anything breaks that you can give us, you know where we live. I suppose you’ll want the negative.’

  ‘A copy will do.’

  ‘The studio’s on the third floor’, Austin said. ‘Tell whoever’s there what you want.’ He waited until Hansen had gone and then said: ‘That takes care of the F.B.I. Now let’s talk about us.’

  He put on his glasses, glanced at a folded copy of the Standard, and waved it at Palmer.

  ‘Have you read this?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Read it.’

  Palmer crossed to take the paper, and what he saw there kindled a new resentment in him. For he had been with the Bulletin long enough to be proud of its reputation and sensitive to any criticism of its integrity or policy. And the Standard was doing just that, and with very little restraint.

  The editorial reminded its readers that the Standard had already questioned the propriety and good taste of the picture contest, but that in its frantic desire to hold circulation the Bulletin had disregarded such friendly advice. There were several hundred words along the same general line, none of it actually saying that Ethel Kovalik was killed because of that particular photograph, but inferring that the tragedy might not otherwise have happened; until acquitted of complicity, however innocent, the Bulletin must accept the responsibility.

  Palmer put the paper back on the desk, dark gaze smouldering, but not knowing what to say. It was almost as if he personally had been publicly censured, and he understood how much worse the editorial would seem to Austin, who personified the Bulletin and what it stood for. Now he eased back into his chair and waited uncomfortably for the next development. Presently it came.

  ‘We know why the Standard is attacking us,’ Austin said, ‘but the readers don’t. The hell of it is,’ he added irritably, ‘the Standard has a point. Whether it’s a case of invasion of privacy or good taste or whatever, we certainly have to accept the responsibility … You didn’t like that circulation stunt in the first place, Walt’, he said to Kelly.

  ‘Not on any ethical grounds’, Kelly said. ‘I just didn’t think it would pay off. It has been used for years, on and off, by papers all over the country. I never heard of any trouble before.’

  ‘I’m not worried so much about the picture.’ Austin put down his glasses and stood up. He walked round the desk and then began to pace back and forth, brow furrowed and his head bent. ‘It’s the story that bothers me. That girl was scared and she told us why. She didn’t want her address printed. So we put in Martin Street anyway—’

  ‘That was Brooks’s decision’, Kelly said.

  ‘I don’t give a damn whose decision it was. The Bulletin printed it and we’re on the street at eight-thirty. Martin Street’s a block long and anybody who wanted to find the girl bad enough could find her in no time. Inside an hour she was dead. I say we have a responsibility here, and I say we have to do what we can.’

  He stood a moment staring out one of the windows. When he turned and came back his tone had moderated.

  ‘I’ve got an idea, Larry’, he said. ‘Walt doesn’t think much of it, but I want you to give it a try’. He sat down behind the desk and leaned back in his high-backed executive’s chair. ‘According to what’s-his-name down at Headquarter’s press-room, the police aren’t breaking their necks on this one. To them it’s just another routine murder about an unimportant woman. And in our position we can’t pressure them. That leaves us with the alternative of doing what we can to help out. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes, sir’, Palmer said, a little surprised that he should be asked, but warming to the man’s force and personality with each statement he made.

  ‘You’ve been with us nearly two years,’ Austin said, ‘and the reports I’ve had have been good. So you’re going to keep working on this case, and nothing else. For two reasons’, he added. ‘One, because you’re on general assignment and therefore expendable; two, because you’ve been in this from the start and probably know more about it than anyone else.’

  ‘It’s going to be expensive’, Kelly said.

  ‘I’ll answer to the stockholders about that—if I have to.… I’m sorry I can’t give you any ideas on how to work, but I think we might reprint that old picture the girl gave you—the one taken in Germany that Brooks wouldn’t use. You still have it?’

  ‘In my desk.’

  ‘Maybe a head-and-shoulder cut’, he said to Kelly. ‘You’ll know how to caption it … A long shot maybe,’ he said, ‘but right now we don’t know for sure who killed her. Maybe she found the husband and maybe not. If she did, it doesn’t mean he killed her, but there’s a chance we might get some lead, so let’s use it.’

  He hesitated and said: ‘Aside from that, Larry, we’ve got a fine library. You may get some help there. Also we’ve got plenty of brains in this office, more, man for man than the police can produce. Use what you need, though I have an idea what you’ll need mostly is legwork and ingenuity and your own common sense.’

  ‘And luck’, Kelly said.

  ‘Especially luck. This could be a wild-goose chase, but I think we have to try’. He studied Palmer a moment. ‘You’ll make your own hours and you’ll come to the office or not, as you please. You’ll report only to Walt on any progress or lack of it. Spend whatever you need and if there’s any question in your mind you can get an okay from us.’

  Kelly, still unconvinced, said:

  ‘What about the union?’

  Austin’s immediate reply was explosive and profane. Once that was out of the way, he considered the problem realistic
ally.

  ‘That’s your job, Walt’, he said. ‘Get the unit chairman in, explain the situation, and work something out. We can’t tell how many hours a week Larry’ll be working and he can’t keep track of every fifteen minutes he might put in. This is a special situation and there should be some intelligent way of covering it that’s satisfactory to union and to Larry. If your budget can’t carry it, we’ll set up a special fund.’

  ‘Okay’, Kelly said, and pushed out of his chair.

  ‘All right with you, Larry?’

  ‘I’d like to give it a try.’

  ‘Then let’s get cracking.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE FINE EDGE of Larry Palmer’s excitement which had been brightly honed by the conference stayed with him for quite a while. In the beginning he had all the enthusiasm he needed, and he crossed the city room like a man walking on a thick cushion of air until he sat down at his desk and began to wonder just where he should start. As he tried to figure ways and means O’Neil came in and hung up his coat, and now Larry went over to sit on the edge of the veteran’s desk.

  For he knew that O’Neil liked him. O’Neil had encouraged him from the start, and in turn he was perhaps the older man’s best listener. In this instance he did not kid himself that he had been picked for the assignment because he was particularly fitted for it; Austin had explained why he had been selected and that was enough for now. He also knew that there would be no secret about what he was supposed to be doing. Within a few hours everyone in the office would know all about it, so now he told O’Neil what had happened and what he knew.