Flowers From Berlin (25th Anniversary Edition)

by Noel Hynd

  "This incident didn't happen, Chief," Cochrane said. "The boys who made this discovery actually found a wino sleeping in the woods. That's all."

  Several heads turned.

  "Oh, well, that's just dandy," Chief Kugler snapped. "As soon as the county medical examiner gets the body—"

  Cochrane interrupted. "The corpse is going to Newark for a postmortem. F.B.I. forensics lab," he said. Cochrane nodded to Cianfrani and Hearn. "Twelve hours should be sufficient for a thorough autopsy. If there are any doubts or delays, this is upon the authority of J. Edgar Hoover's office. Any questions?"

  There weren't.

  Two state troopers accompanied the Newark agents down the hill with the yellow canvas bag. Cochrane turned back to Kugler.

  "Did this Pritchard boy have friends?" Cochrane asked.

  "A boatload. Down at the yard." Kugler paused. "Parents, too."

  "I'll start with the friends," Cochrane answered.

  What emerged that afternoon was a portrait of a homesick, clean-cut, dutiful young naval officer, half-man and half-boy, and totally naïve to the malevolence of the world beyond Kansas.

  "Is he dead?" asked one shipmate.

  Cochrane wasn’t happy with a lie, but he was stuck with it. "This is a standard investigation. Ensign Pritchard is AWOL from a sensitive installation. Now, perhaps," Cochrane nudged firmly, "you could recall your friend's daily routine?"

  At Reilly's, Pritchard's friend recalled, the young man liked to hobnob with the local females, and even shoot a round of darts with some of the English sailors, to whom he always lost.

  "A terrible dart player!" another of Pritchard's friends remarked. "The worst in the house."

  "Second worst," Buck Reilly, the bartender and owner, recalled that evening as he removed the padlock from his front doors and opened for business. "The worst was Pritchard's pal. The old man."

  "What old man?" Cochrane asked.

  "Elmer," said Buck Reilly, his ham-hock arms swinging at his sides as Cochrane followed. "And come to think of it, he's disappeared, too."

  Cochrane took up a place at the end of the bar. "Elmer who?" he asked.

  "I don't know Elmer who," said Reilly. "I don't learn last names unless a customer is behind on his tab. Elmer used to hang around here at nights."

  "Continue," Cochrane asked.

  Reilly blew his breath into a glass and polished the glass with his soiled apron. "Well, he was an old guy. I don't know how old, but he said he fought in the last war. Tall, but up a bit. Sallow complexion. Gray hair. Looked like a thousand other old men."

  "Nothing strange about him?"

  "Not that I recall."

  "How did he get here?"

  "What? To the bar?"

  "Yes. Walk? Car? With friends?”

  "Darned if I know."

  "You never saw a car? Or a bicycle?"

  "No, but I wouldn't have. Hey, I'm busy serving when this place is open. Stay around. You'll see."

  "If he didn't live around here, he couldn't have walked," Cochrane said. "Particularly if he was old."

  Reilly shrugged. "Now you tell me something," he said.

  "If I can."

  "Is Rosenfeld going to get us into the war? He is, isn't he? Franklin D. Rosenfeld?"

  "I only work for the F.B.I.," Cochrane answered, a sudden fatigue overtaking him. "I've never been to the White House."

  "Seems to me there's still eleven thousand Americans buried in France from the last war," Reilly said. "And for what? Know what I think? I think Mussolini is just what the dagos deserve. I can't buy a drop of liquor in New Jersey without paying the Don Macaronis. I hear Mussolini put them all out of business in Italy. That's why they all come here. And as for Hitler . . . as for Hitler," he repeated for emphasis, "well if there's anything worse than the Jews it's those filthy English. So I say, let Adolf eat them both alive."

  Cochrane felt anger swelling inside him and did not understand how he suppressed it. Maybe it was professionalism, because his overwhelming instinct was to knock the flinty-eyed Reilly squarely in the jaw.

  Instead, he flipped shut the palm-sized notebook in which he had been writing and recognized that it was time to leave. To his abiding shame, he answered Reilly. "Who knows, Buck? Maybe you're right."

  “Of course I am,” Reilly muttered. “Ask anyone around here. They’ll tell you the same thing.”

  A pair of brutal thunderclaps toward five in the afternoon shook the foundations of everything that was standing. There followed a few heartbeats later a deluge and all Cochrane could think about was, there goes any clue that we missed in the woods this morning. Cochrane had taken refuge in a Red Bank guest house.

  He sighed. Depression was upon him. Billy Pritchard was dead as were scores of other people. Cochrane bought an afternoon Newark Star, and lost himself in the sports.

  Not surprisingly, the Washington Senators baseball team had been thrashed a second day in a row by the formidable Yankees: home runs by Joe DiMaggio, Charley Keller, and the newcomer Tommy Henrich. Then he found himself laughing out loud.

  DiMaggio, Keller, and Henrich. Wait till he told Hoover, he fantasized. An Axis connection on the New York Yankees!

  The rain continued. Mike Cianfrani telephoned from Newark in the evening.

  "The killer used a hard, flexible tool. There were scars on the neck," said Cianfrani. "Strangled the Pritchard kid."

  Cochrane lay restlessly in bed much of the night. A sense of Siegfried was beginning to emerge:

  A six-foot German. Young. Strong. A talent with disguises, explosives, and probably dialects, too. The man had a car. He could work ably with a wireless and was privy to a complex code. Cochrane was certain that young Pritchard had been lured from Reilly's, murdered, conveyed to the parking lot, and dumped in the woods.

  On his way back to Washington, a vision of Bobby Charles Martin, the cartographer, was before Cochrane. He thought back to the circles Martin had drawn on the maps of New Jersey, courtesy of the Bluebirds' triangulation.

  Red Bank was within the circle. The saboteur had spied on the United States Navy by day and transmitted to Germany at night.

  Cozy, Cochrane concluded. FDR would be apoplectic.

  Cochrane returned to his office and telephoned Newark again, ordering reports of the Pritchard slaying to be sent to all town police chiefs in northern New Jersey, as well as the chief homicide investigators of all principal cities between Washington and Boston. Somewhere, Cochrane prayed, the Pritchard killing might strike a parallel with something else. Moments later, Dick Wheeler lumbered into Cochrane's office.

  "Mr. Hoover has called a meeting for Monday morning," Wheeler said. "The Chief wants all the Indians present. All three of us tribe members. You, me, Lerrick."

  Wheeler curled an upper lip. So did Cochrane.

  "Now, more bad news," Wheeler added. "For you, that is."

  "Let's have it."

  "The LKW you requested. Last Known Whereabouts of one Otto Mauer."

  "Yes?"

  "No can do," Wheeler answered. "The Bureau slapped a red tag on them just forty-eight hours ago. From your own happy days working with that smelly little gnome up in the seventh-floor archives, you know what that means."

  "Removed to Hoover's own personal files," said Bill Cochrane.

  "Where they will probably sit until icicles hang in hell," surmised Wheeler. A pensive silence shrouded them both, then Wheeler concluded. "Monday morning early," he reminded Cochrane. "Second floor conference room."

  Wheeler departed. Cochrane felt himself alone. The sensation made him think of Heather. He stared out the window for a moment. That odd question was upon him again. If she came back for five minutes, what would he say?

  I've missed you . . .

  I love you . . .

  I've been given the most perplexing problem, and I cannot solve it. . .

  "Then you had better keep working on it," he could almost hear her answer in her proper, magnolia-scented way. "Work comes first. F
un comes later."

  But, Cochrane recalled, there would be no fun. Not today. Mourning ends, he reminded himself, pain sometimes doesn't. He sympathized with the family of Billy Pritchard, who that day was attending the twenty-two-year-old's funeral. The burial was in Kansas, where Berlin was something distant. All the Pritchard family knew was that their son was dead. On the death certificate the circumstances had been "redefined," as Bureau parlance tactfully put it. Mike Cianfrani, from the Newark office, had taken care of everything.

  Billy Pritchard had died, the report said, when a stockpiled harbor mine had accidentally been detonated. The military was dangerous even in time of peace, the family was begged to understand. These things did occur on the odd occasion. And everyone was so terribly sorry.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The powwow was scheduled for 8 A.M., Monday. In actuality, it was a war party.

  Cochrane arrived at twenty to eight. The building was quiet. The door to Hoover's office was closed. But Cochrane had seen both Hoover's and Clyde Tolson's cars outside in the lot. The Director was lurking somewhere.

  Cochrane entered the conference room and found Dick Wheeler already seated. "J.E.H. is furious this morning," Wheeler said. "Keep your wits about you."

  Wheeler removed his pipe from his breast pocket, skewered the stem with a green pipe cleaner, and set it down on the table near an ashtray. "Just give me enough room to talk when I need to," Wheeler warned. "J.E.H. listens to me, don't forget."

  Cochrane settled into a chair. "What's going on?" he asked.

  "We have company. From the executive branch."

  Wheeler grimaced and they both heard the door from Hoover's office open across the corridor. There were voices, including Hoover's.

  A pulse beat later the door opened fully. Wheeler and Cochrane were on their feet as Hoover entered in a brisk, energetic shuffle. The Director wore a fiercer scowl than usual, and his cheeks and brow were florid. He looked angry, particularly when he spotted Cochrane. But then again, he always looked angry from a distance of fifty feet or less.

  Frank Lerrick was with him and handled the introduction of a third man: tall and thin, with a squat, pug nose and big ears that almost seemed to flop. His name was Russell Middlebrook and he was an undersecretary of state. Cordell Hull's office was to be kept informed of progress in the case, Lerrick announced. Middlebrook took a place between Lerrick and Wheeler. At the table he gave no more than a nod in Cochrane's direction and settled in with a pad of paper and a pencil.

  "He's a creep," Wheeler would announce with a contemptuous grin to Cochrane in a later, lighter moment. "Over at State they refer to him as 'Rabbit.' Went to Penn State University and took the right exams. What can you expect? He's second-string. If there's such a thing as simultaneously honest and untrustworthy, he's it. Big ears, get it? Mouth to match."

  "Okay, okay," said Hoover waspishly after the introductions. "Let's get started." It was ten of eight. Hoover nodded toward Cochrane, who was expected to summarize activity since the previous meeting.

  "A great deal of positive progress," Cochrane began.

  "Have we made an arrest yet?" Hoover demanded.

  A pause, then Cochrane answered, "We have a portrait emerging of a key suspect." For several minutes, he provided details.

  There followed a long glacial silence with which no one seemed inclined to tamper.

  "We cannot arrest a profile, young Agent Cochrane," Hoover scolded. "How many more targets do we allow this man? How many ships do we lose?" Without stopping, the director shifted his own gears. "How long have you been on this case?"

  "Six weeks, sir."

  "Six weeks," Hoover repeated flatly. "And in six weeks you've managed to draw a profile." Cochrane held his own indignation in check as Hoover bore ahead. "You were taken off a relatively easy assignment in Baltimore. You should have been well rested. Do you know that I have a meeting with the President early this afternoon? Mr. Roosevelt is going to ask me for a progress report. Unfortunately, there isn't one."

  Hoover glared, set down a pencil across the table with a loud clack, and let go with his characteristic low, whining curses. His eyes bulged, his cheeks rouged, and his lips tightened. Ruddy-faced and angry, he looked like a deranged Mr. Toad of Toad Hall. His puffy eyes darted to each of the other men at the table for help or sympathy.

  Dick Wheeler, who knew better than ever to interrupt, had been waiting for just such a silence to rescue Cochrane.

  "I think, Mr. Director," Wheeler suggested mildly, "that the President will be impressed with the Bureau's progress over the last few days. I've reviewed it myself," emphasized Wheeler, who hadn't reviewed it at all. "I think a written summation of Bureau progress should be represented to the President. I think we can also safely state that we're extremely close to the key arrest."

  Cochrane shot Wheeler a beseeching glance, but Wheeler's eyes were upon Hoover.

  "Are we? Are we?" asked Hoover in his rushed, clipped voice. He looked at Cochrane without allowing him to answer. "Well, all right. Much better." He looked back to Wheeler.

  "I think we have enough to please the President," Wheeler said.

  "Who'll make the report?" Hoover asked. "I want this agent"—he indicated Cochrane with a sharp nod of the skull—"still out in the field. No point to take a field man to the White House."

  "I'd be happy to make the presentation," Wheeler offered. Frank Lerrick looked at Wheeler with vexation.

  "All right," Hoover agreed. "A report. Something in writing that we can both present verbally and submit." Lerrick's small intense eyes still glowed like simmering charcoal in Wheeler's direction as Hoover spoke. Hoover turned to Lerrick and the red glow vanished.

  "That sounds good to you, Frank? One o'clock."

  "Very good, Mr. Director," Lerrick said with enthusiasm.

  "I think this field agent, Mr. Cochrane, has done excellent work," Wheeler continued, soothingly. "I'd stake the reputation of my own office upon Mr. Cochrane's work."

  Hoover seemed pleased by, or at least content with, the endorsement. His mood now mellowed considerably. Undersecretary Middlebrook was taking short, precise notes—much to Cochrane's unease—and Frank Lerrick watched and listened with his arms folded. J. Edgar Hoover looked absently to Lerrick and then across to Wheeler. Everyone in the room knew the director had something on his mind. J. Edgar Hoover had, as Dick Wheeler had once termed it privately, "his own cute ways of doing things."

  "I think some arrests should be made," Hoover announced portentously.

  A silence held the room. Hoover spoke from the throne:

  "Yes. I think maybe a dozen arrests should be made. No, more. Maybe two dozen. German-Americans. Hit the Bunds in New York and Chicago. Let them know we're alive." He turned back to Lerrick. "Can CAR Division come up with a dozen to twenty names by noon?" he asked. "I want the President to know that we're making a sweep."

  "It can be done," Frank Lerrick answered, making note of it.

  "Sir?" Cochrane interrupted. Hoover looked his way. "With all due respect, I think any arrests at this time would be a particularly bad idea."

  "You think that, do you?" Hoover retorted, his eyes tightening.

  "I've been through Central Alien Registry myself," Cochrane explained. "No names stand out. I'd even guess that the man we want is not in CAR Division's files. Random arrests will only alert the other side."

  Hoover's fingers were drumming the table. Persistent tapping in the same spot. The Director’s little eyes darted around the room. "Other opinions?" Hoover challenged.

  "The arrests can be made by, uh, this evening," Frank Lerrick chimed in solidly.

  Hoover looked to Dick Wheeler, whose eyes narrowed dreamily as he worked his pipe between clenched teeth. A slight sucking noise emanated from the briar. "I think some arrests might be in order," Wheeler agreed. "Flex a little muscle. Show Old Glory to the swastika set. Read them the riot act."

  Cochrane felt the conversation exclude him. "Wasn't there a Portuguese
or Spanish operation out of Yorkville?" Hoover asked. "Did not I see a report on that recently?"

  "That's correct, sir," Wheeler answered.

  "Well, that's one that we can roll up for starters," Hoover commanded. "Then see what else is around."

  "Done, Chief," Lerrick said.

  "Now," the Director concluded, "if there isn't anything else. . . I have another meeting this morning."

  The seat of Hoover's suit had just taken leave from his chair when Cochrane again interrupted.

  "Yes, there is one thing, sir," Cochrane said.

  Half-up, Hoover eased back down. "What?" Hoover inquired tartly.

  "I need permission from the Director to use a source currently unavailable to me."

  Hoover frowned. Cochrane forged on.

  "This Bureau repatriated a German defector. A man named Otto Mauer, whom I used as a source in Germany."

  "A German?" Hoover asked with an odd blend of xenophobia and surprise. "A German?" he repeated. There was a stark, telling silence after Hoover's second exclamation.

  "We have Mauer in the relocation program, Mr. Director," Wheeler said flatly. "There's a red tag on his file, meaning it's inaccessible to field agents."

  "Inaccessible without specific permission of the director of the F.B.I.," Cochrane added. "Which is what I'm requesting."

  "You're requesting permission to break the rules?" Hoover asked with the intonation of a statement. "Permission denied."

  "Sir," Cochrane tried again, "the infor—"

  Hoover's eyes shot upward from the desk. "Permission denied!" Hoover blurted again. "Did you fail to hear me the first time? Rules are rules!"

  "It is absolutely vital," Cochrane answered, "that I find out everything possible on Abwehr or Gestapo structure within the United States. We have no other trustworthy defectors. Mauer will talk. He's been a solid, unimpeachable source since the first day I—"

  Hoover looked like a hammer in search of an anvil. "Agent Cochrane," Hoover interrupted. "I run the cleanest, most honest police agency in the world. I'll not have it rely on a... a"—Hoover sputtered slightly and searched for just the right word—"a German," he concluded. Then, nodding toward Cochrane, he issued his instructions to Dick Wheeler. "Special Agent Cochrane may leave now," J. Edgar Hoover said.