New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  Hugging her tightly, he whispered in her ear, “Daisy, we’ve got to get out of here. Just hold this thought.”

  She groaned, “No!” shaking her head, straightening up, leaning against him for a minute. Then, slowly, “Ah, right, right,” nuzzling his ear. “Gimme some of that bubbly.”

  She took a couple of deep draughts from the bottle he pressed against her lips, happily spitting a big mouthful out. The cold foam splashed down her chest. She leaned back again, shaking and sighing in relief as it dripped from her nipples.

  Oh, God. Maybe—No! Maybe nothing. Then … the hell with it, Hawkins thought. Another groan from the well. Damn! Why aren’t you dead? Damn, damn, damn. We’ve got to get out of here. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Focus. All right. Let’s go.

  With an almost formal gesture he ran his hands along the zippers to the top, pulled her bodice up, straightening it. He held it out like a coat for her even though it was still attached to her waist. She bent way forward in a deep bow, wiggling and giggling, nestling her breasts into it, looking up at him. He slowly laid her back, tugging at the tight, resisting zipper, pulling it all liquid smooth again. When he reached the top she planted a big openmouthed kiss on his lips.

  -76-

  Splashing noises echoed up from below. Hawkins squatted down and peered in.

  “Hello, Dieter! How’s the water? Having ourselves a jolly swim?”

  “Fick dich!”

  “I say. That’s quite enough! There’s a lady here.” Hawkins strode back a few paces to Daisy. With a smooth, grand gesture he bent over, slipped his arm behind her knees and picked her up. Gently swinging her, almost a waltzing dance, he carried her in his arms back to the Cord. Shifting a bit, he opened the door with a pair of fingers. He set her down on the front seat. She rocked back with a childish grin, one foot up on the seat. Another round of champagne. He nestled the bottle between her legs and kissed her again.

  “Back in a minute.”

  First, the gun, Hawkins thought. He walked in circles around the well, sweeping the long grass, feeling for it with his foot. Found it. He held it up to the light. A Luger Parabellum. Not bad. A gun, but a thing of polished beauty, too. Pulled the toggle back. A shell ejected. Yep, loaded. Clicked the bullet back in. Another trophy. And what else? He returned to the well, crouching a foot from the edge, gingerly leaning over. The top of Dieter’s head was just visible, far enough down, but not too far.

  What to do with him? He thought. Hand him over to Kelly? No. Too soon. Need to crack whatever they’re up to first. That’s the way to go through the Bureau’s door. Or … could call W, have them send a pair of Mounties down from Montreal to collect him. But that meant leaving him in the well. Ludwig might know about this place, come get him. Probably cold down there, too, half in the water. He is badly hurt. Might not make it until the Mounties arrived. That settled it. No choice but to get him out. Then take him somewhere, let W work him, like in the cemetery. I need the handcuffs. Even with a busted shoulder he’s still big and dangerous. Have to get them off her and on him.

  Too bad. That was rather sporting. Rather? Damn sensational, it is. Ah, well.

  “Listen up! You’re doing what I say. I have your gun. Throw the keys to those handcuffs up here.”

  Hawkins could hear grunting and splashing noises. Dieter was diving for something. Or was he trying to climb?

  Dieter called up the well shaft, “No. Go away.”

  “What? Throw up the keys!”

  There was a long pause.

  “No. You’ll shoot me, then.”

  “I won’t hurt you. I’ll get you out. Understand? But I want the keys to the handcuffs first.”

  “Why should I trust you!”

  “I won’t shoot you.”

  “No.”

  Hawkins edged closer to the lip of the well, impatiently waiting for the answer. He heard a faint click. He instantly jerked up and back.

  “I’m going to lean down. I want you to throw them up to me. Then I’ll drop you a rope.” At the edge of a field, a dozen yards away, bobbled a tattered scarecrow. Hawkins ran over, broke it off and carried it back, thrusting it over the well. Looking up, Dieter saw a profile in the dim light. He instantly fired a couple of rounds.

  -77-

  Several handfuls of straw drifted down. Hawkins threw the scarecrow aside. So. Tried to kill me again. Thinks he’ll wait for Ludwig to come. He ran back to the Cord.

  “Roy, were those shots?” Daisy said.

  “Nothing.” No kisses this time. Hawkins yanked the spare gas can from the trunk. Carefully edging up to the well, he held the can in front of him and poured some gasoline into the hole.

  The first drops hit. Dieter exploded in a string of curses. Hawkins splashed some more gas.

  “Mit diesem Mund küsst du deine Mutter?” and laughed. Another burst of curses from below. “Dieter, what time is it? Hey? Welche Zeit haben wir? I know. Time for a spot of petrol,” and gave him another splash.

  Dieter realized it wasn’t pee. He went silent. Hawkins could hear him frantically digging in the side of the well, grunting and gasping from the fumes and the pain, trying to get a foothold with his good hand and two feet. Every time he tried to gouge out a hole to stick a foot in the wall the dirt collapsed with a distant rumble. The more he failed the more he panicked. Finally, even his broken arm flailed uselessly against the side of the well.

  “All righty,” Hawkins called down. “So! Herr Doctor picked this place, and you think you’d rather take your chances on shooting me and hope he finds you. Planning ahead. Very smart. However, I have a light. Throw up the keys. Now.”

  Hawkins still had the empty can in his hand. Almost tossed it aside. But no. He started to throw it overhand down the well. Dieter saw a shape, a target the shape of a human head. He fired.

  The column of gasoline vapor in the well shaft instantly exploded with a brilliant bluish-white flash. A huge orange and white fireball shot out of the hole, soaring a hundred feet into the air, lighting the countryside like day. The blast knocked Hawkins over, throwing him a dozen feet, flat on his back. A moment later a deep reverberation echoed off the nearby mountains. Then the gas can bounced back into the barnyard with a jouncing clang.

  Inside the well the explosion hammered Dieter into the burning mud like a spike, right up to his neck. With a crumpling, thudding rumble the walls of the well fell in, leaving nothing behind besides a soft area of loose dirt.

  Hawkins slowly rolled over and stiffly pushed himself to his knees and then his feet, fresh pain in his back and side now stabbing him anew, heaving and gasping, trying to get a breath in, the wind knocked out of him, ears ringing. In the distance came the frightened lowing of cattle. He brushed himself off and limped over to where the well once was, tripping over the gas can. He hooked the wire handle with a finger. Flattened. He flicked it aside, gazing at the huge, slightly smoking depression where the well used to be.

  It’ll take a steam shovel to get the keys. Now what? He knew the instant answer: find another abandoned farm, that’s what. Or maybe the manor. Those handcuffs aren’t a problem. Not for me. Probably not for her, either. Not until dawn, maybe later.

  -78-

  He stretched across the seat and gave her a kiss. She looked worried.

  “What was that!”

  “An IQ test. Don’t ask whose.” He started up the car, patting her on the knee, taking another slug of champagne from the bottle. “Time to get out of here—”

  “No.”

  “No? Why—”

  “Ooh—gosh, ooooh!—the money.” She bent over, burying her face between her knees, “you’ve got to get the money.”

  Hawkins switched the ignition off.

  “What money?” He stared at her a second. “My God, you were trying to pinch something out of Ludwig’s car in that?”

  “I overhead Ludwig say all the cash they needed was in the car door.”

  “Huh—righto!”

  T
he Mercedes was still running. With a handkerchief he pulled open the driver’s side door, twisting and fiddling the handles the way she had. There didn’t seem anything unusual about it. No storage compartments. No hidden doors. He got in and slid across the seat. His heel touched a square object, a brown leather case.

  Anticipation rising, he carried it around front of the headlights, flipping it open. No money. Instead, snug in green felt rested a screw-on buttstock, a few spare clips, ammo, a big snail drum magazine and an empty hollow for the Luger in his pocket. Exquisite. Never had a chance to find a gun shop. Maybe I should pinch the sniper rifle while I’m at it. Dieter won’t be using it now.

  That left the passenger door. He began trying the handles and knobs again. Nothing. He knocked all over it with his knuckles. The bottom didn’t sound the same. A dead thunk instead of a hollow ring. He searched all around the bottom, pulling on the liner, trying to turn the screws with his fingernails. Impossible without tools. No time anyway.

  Pushing the door all the way open, he hopped behind the wheel, shifting into gear, angling the big car around the farmyard. Lined the right side up with one of the fieldstone walls. Drove forward, got some running room. Shifted into reverse and stomped on the gas. The car roared back. The door caught on the old stone wall. It neatly sheared off with a grinding bang followed by the tinkling of broken glass.

  Hawkins swung the wheel, shining the lights on the door. The liner had been completely shredded away. Reaching inside, he felt a thin metal box. He angled it out past a strut. It was about an inch and a half to two inches thick, maybe fourteen inches long, pearl gray with a folding steel handle. Standard, heavy, fireproof and locked. He switched off the motor, killed the lights and ran across the farmyard. Along the way he grabbed the gun case and tossed it in the Cord’s trunk.

  “Righto. Back to the manor.”

  “Roy, my hands are starting to hurt. You’ve got to get these handcuffs off.”

  Dieter cinched them too tight. Damn. From the expression on her face it was definitely killing the mood. Got my lockpicks in my pocket, he thought. Could open the cuffs easily enough. But how am I going to explain that? Maybe I can fake it.

  “Any tools at your house?”

  “No. We’ve got to go back to the club.”

  “Ah, I do not want to go back to that place. And I thought you quit.”

  “But they’ll know what to do.”

  “Why would they know?”

  “They’re … you know …”

  “No—what?”

  “Oh, jeesums. They work for Meyer Lansky.”

  “Oh, splendid. Gangsters?”

  “Um, well, it is illegal. But they’re really just regular businessmen.”

  “Who know all about handcuffs.”

  “Um—ye-ah.”

  “First Nazis. Now gangsters. And we’re going to ask them for a favor.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Meanwhile, here I am, going to work for the Bureau.”

  “We won’t tell.”

  “I do hope not.” He started the car, pressed the accelerator, then braked to a stop and gave her another kiss. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”

  -79-

  “I don’t think his man was alone in this,” Hawkins said. Daisy had just introduced him to her boss, the casino’s manager, Jacob Jacobson, the man behind the door who peeled off the C-notes to Daisy earlier. He and Hawkins were standing shoulder to shoulder in a narrow gallery off Jacobson’s office. They were peering down through an ornamental grillwork at the casino floor. The back of Ludwig’s head was just below. The lookout was obviously well used. Binoculars and empty coffee cups littered a worn shelf. Jacobson’s face was partly lit through the grillwork. He eyed Hawkins carefully, suspicious and tense.

  “What? You saw him grab Daisy.”

  “They had that farm picked out in advance. It was a perfect setup. Remote from the road, plenty of trees. Then there’s the well. Remember—he tried to shoot me? From the bottom. He knew Ludwig would come and find him. You see? He wasn’t worried about getting out.”

  “But what’d these guys want with a body dump?”

  “I can guess. My company sent me to … well… prepare things with them. I’ve been following him around to his meetings, watching them, trying to find an edge that’d give us a little leverage.”

  “What kind of meetings?”

  “Foreign trade meetings. Don’t you know what he is?”

  “No.”

  “He’s an official trade delegate to the United States from the Third Reich. He’s offering American companies business deals inside the countries the Nazis just conquered.”

  “What? Here?”

  “That’s right,” Hawkins said. He reached for his wallet, found Ludwig’s business card and handed it to Jacobson. His eyes locked on the eagle and swastika. The guarded expression vanished, replaced by genuine shock, confusion and horror.

  “But what’s Daisy got to do with this?”

  “She overheard something. Something dangerous to them. Something illegal.”

  “What kind of illegal?”

  “They’re actually spies. They’re using your casino as a cutout to bribe people, buy information, probably.”

  Jacobson acted skeptical, frowning slightly. “But Daisy?”

  “She recognized them. She heard Ludwig say the money they needed was in the car, then went to find it.”

  “How’d she know them?”

  “She rented them her house for a business conference. That’s how I met her.”

  “She did? Jesus Christ!” Jacobson bounded out of the closet. Daisy was leaning over a chair with a cushion under her hands while two of Jacobson’s men ground away with a file on the handcuffs. “Daisy! You rented your house to those Krauts?” The men stopped filing.

  She nodded. “Please don’t get mad.”

  Jacobson’s face reddened anyway.

  “Daisy? What the hell? How could you! Nazis? I can’t believe it! I got people over there.”

  “I’m sorry! I need the money. You know I do—”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I know, but God dammit, Daisy, Nazis? In my club—”

  “You have relatives there?” Hawkins said.

  “Yeah. In Poland. We haven’t heard a thing in months. My father’s worried sick, my mother, too. Her sisters and brothers are there now.”

  “I’m really sorry. That’s awful.” “We’re still hoping for news.”

  “Of course. Well, anyway. Daisy was eavesdropping on Ludwig. He could still be a threat to her. We can’t be sure—”

  “I know exactly how to take care of him! Fellas!”

  “What? Take care? How—”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No! Wait—listen.”

  “Why? We’ve done it before. Maybe year and a half, two years ago. Meyer, Bugsy, me and a bunch of the guys from the old neighborhood busted up a Bund rally in Yorkville. They had a stage with a swastika flag and photo of Hitler and everything. Threw a couple of Nazis out the windows along with their shit. Mostly they panicked and ran out. One of them broke an ankle trying to get away. We chased them down the block and beat the shit out of ’em. Those fuckers better understand, Jews can fight back.”

  “How come you weren’t at the Waldorf the other day?”

  “Aw, well, good God, you can’t do that on Park Avenue.”

  “And you can’t do it now, here. We have to find out what he’s doing.”

  Jacobson was back to looking suspicious and tense. “Yeah …”

  “Bring Ludwig under your grate over here. I want to listen. Tell him your boys saw his chauffeur snatch Daisy, followed him and took care of him. Tell him to never come back. Tell him you know he had a disagreement with Miss Schenck and that you’ll have him arrested as an accessory to kidnapping if he says a peep to anyone. He won’t say a word. He can’t stand any official scrutiny at all. Assure him you want everything hushed up, too, he needn’t worry about Mis
s Schenck talking to anyone. Tell him you’ll take care of that.”

  “No way. Why should I do that?”

  -80-

  “Because they’re Nazis. In your club,” Hawkins said.

  “Yeah, and that’s what’s pissing me off! Help you with your business? What for? No, we are gonna settle this with him right now.”

  “My business is your business. I can prove it. Give me the names of those relatives of yours. I have some very influential friends in London. I can’t promise anything. Their situation is very bad. But there’s a small chance I could arrange a visa for them to get to a neutral country, probably Turkey or across Russia to Shanghai.”

  Taken aback, he grabbed Hawkins’ lapel, let go of it. Then he grabbed it again and started shaking it, uncertain whether to act tough or grateful.

  “You could do that?”

  “I’m promising nothing. I’ll try.”

  “I dunno—”

  “What have you got to lose? Really?”

  “How do I know you’re not conning me?”

  Hawkins thought a second, then remembered something. “Hold on.” He took out his wallet and began thumbing through the cards again. It was still there, the Duke of Devonshire’s official business card as undersecretary of state for dominion affairs. “I know people.” Hawkins handed it to Jacobson. He read it, stared up at Hawkins a second. Then he read it again. “In a couple of days you can call the British consulate in Manhattan and confirm it. Until then, you’ll have to trust me.” Jacobson was wavering. “You know odds. What are you really risking here? For the stakes?”

  “Not much.” He quietly handed the card back, tapped out a cigarette, lit it and studied Hawkins for a second. “Okay.” Jacobson beckoned to two of his men and went out onto the gaming room floor under the grate. He waited, puffing away, while they brought Ludwig over. Hawkins closed the closet door so his face couldn’t be seen through the grill and leaned closer to hear.