New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  One creak was meaningless. At this hour two were one too many for a coincidence. Someone’s outside. Curtains blew from the open window over the coiled fire escape rope. Hawkins reached down, slipped off his loafers. Leaning on his hands, he slowly shifted his weight, one foot down carefully after the other. The layers of carpets muffled any sound. He peeked over the top of the sill. Down on the street, on the far side, two men were carefully watching.

  I’ve been spotted, Hawkins thought. Ludwig must’ve been tipped off since this afternoon. Otherwise they wouldn’t have held that meeting. Doesn’t make any sense. But there they are.

  A vision of the Luger upstairs flicked to mind. With Dieter gone, carrying his weapon seemed an unnecessary risk. Hawkins stealthily retraced his steps next to the bed, moving as carefully as before.

  The tiredness he felt a few minutes earlier vanished, every nerve afire. The copy of the Steel Seine blueprint on the Waldorf stationery, take care of that first, he thought. Carefully lifting Ventnor’s coat, Hawkins inserted it in his jacket, then drew the sheets up under Ventnor’s chin. He clicked out the light. Checked the street again. The two men waved at the window next door. Hawkins slid under the bed, grasping his nose and mouth to keep from sneezing in the dust. He slowly began making a snoring noise, softly at first, then louder.

  -93-

  A freshly oiled and almost silent hiss. The connecting door from Ludwig’s side swung open. A dark form briskly stepped in, only a couple of paces. The man fired three shots into the bed. The silenced weapon made a soft popping noise, more like pulling corks from a bottle than the sharp, menacing retort of a lethal weapon. Ventnor’s body and the bed rocked slightly as each shot sank home, the bedsprings ominously squeaking, claustrophobically sagging to an inch of Hawkins’ nose, stirring up the dust.

  The gunman stood waiting. The acrid stench of smokeless powder permeated the room. After a moment the man cautiously reached over and felt Ventnor’s throat. He held the vein a second before grunting in satisfaction. The dark figure strode back into Ludwig’s room, closing the door. Muffled voices echoed in the distance.

  Hawkins instantly slid from under the bed. He tiptoed to the opposite connecting door. He unlocked and opened it, squeezed through and carefully relocked it.

  Behind came the slow, shallow breaths of a couple deep asleep. He put his ear on the connecting door, listening.

  Footsteps again. Ludwig’s voice in a loud whisper, “Thank you, I—” Someone reached up and clicked on the hanging light. Ludwig slowly inhaled, then, “Dummkopf! It’s the wrong one! That’s Ventnor! We need him! Is he dead? He’s dead? Oh my God! This is a disaster. You let Hawkins escape? I cannot believe this! You’ve got to find him!” There was a door slam. They ran from the room.

  Hawkins crept to the outside door. No sounds. Opened it a crack, peeked out. Then carefully angled his head around the frame. No one in the hall yet. The sleeping couple stirred slightly. They were waking. Have to move.

  He started running down the long hallway. Partway down came the gassy sound of the old steam engine being charged. Then a putt-putt-putt as the elevator started rumbling up again. Not going to make the corner, he realized. He began checking doors: one, two, three, all occupied. The elevator cage peeked above the floor. Tried the last one. It opened. He jumped in, pushing it shut fast but silently, bolting it.

  The odds were getting a little better. He waited a second, listening for the sound of someone sleeping. Nothing. He quickly flicked his lighter. The bed was empty. He switched the lights on and checked the window. This room was on the inside of the U-shaped hotel building, looking out over a tree-filled courtyard the size of a town square.

  The old room service phone rested on the dresser. He grabbed the receiver, clicking until the desk clerk answered.

  “Riley’s Lake House please.”

  A voice he didn’t recognize answered. He asked for Jacobson. “Emergency.” Two or three agonizing minutes later he came on the line. “Jacob? Hawkins. Something’s gone wrong. Ludwig was waiting for me with at least three gunmen.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, but they killed Ventnor instead.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m certain. Jacob, Daisy’s in a great deal of danger. If they know about me they may know about her. We can’t be sure. Maybe you, too.”

  “We can take care of ourselves. You still at the States Hotel?”

  “Yes—”

  With a click Jacobson hung up.

  “Hey!”

  Footsteps raced by outside. No getting out through there. The window—what’s the drop? He opened it and leaned out. A long way, three stories. His foot hit the knotted fire escape rope. That’s it. Have to risk it. A soft plop. The rope hit the sidewalk on the piazza. Tightly grasping it with both hands, he uneasily climbed up onto the windowsill in the pitch black, back to the courtyard. The crinkling sisal felt positively ancient.

  Okay. Say a little prayer, he thought. Now. Lay back, swing out, brace the feet against the wall. Walk backward. Past another window. His sock-clad feet slipped on the smooth painted brick. With a jarring thud his body slammed against the wall. He began climbing down monkey style, hand over hand.

  Three-quarters of the way down the rope gave with a loud thonk. It whipped out into the air, spinning around. Hawkins fell straight into the darkness, twisting with it, suppressing a yelp. Seven feet down he hit and rolled. He sat up. Okay, he thought. Still in one piece. Just tangled in rope. He pulled and threw it off. A little jingle. The rope held but the hook and board had ripped from the wall.

  He ran to the front of the courtyard, looking through the glass doors into the lobby. Empty. Good. Get upstairs, get the Luger, go after Ludwig. He slipped inside. Around the corner he casually stepped into the elevator.

  “Four please.” With a sigh the operator stood and cranked it into gear. They rose. The putt-putt-putt of the steam engine in the basement echoed up again.

  Hawkins plucked up the operator’s evening paper, holding it in front of his face. Two men were pacing back and forth on the third floor. The operator called out, “Up?” through the grate. “Down,” they hollered impatiently. The car kept rising.

  The door opened. Hawkins ran around the corner down the hallway to his own room. The door was open a crack. He pressed himself against the wall, slowly pushed the door, peeked inside. Empty. Clothes and luggage were strewn about. It’d been searched.

  He dove under the bed, ripping up the carpet. They hadn’t found it. The cased Luger was still in place. Something’d gone right. He filled his pockets with the flat clips and hefted the snail drum magazine. It clicked in with a satisfying snap. He gratefully pulled the toggle and released it. Loaded.

  Hawkins cracked the door slightly open, peering out. A shadow draped across the wall. He slid the door shut. With one swift motion he pulled the heavy marble top off the Victorian dresser and turned it toward the door. He crouched behind it, gun at the ready. Seconds later two men outside kicked the door open with a crash, firing in. The rounds drilled harmlessly into the stone, spending their strength, cracking and smashing the marble in Hawkins’ hands.

  The Luger flipped four rounds up and out in a steady arc. A man staggered back. Heavily crashed against the opposite wall. He made a strange wheezing sound—air hissing out the holes in his chest. Footsteps echoed in the distance, running hard down the hall. Hawkins threw the marble pieces aside, jumped to the near wall and peered around the door.

  The gunman sat upright against the corridor wall, feet sprawled out in front of him, chin slumping on his chest. A bright red stain ran down his shirtfront into his pants. The second man had vanished. The man’s chest heaved. Little fizzing bubbles of blood sprayed out around the edges of the bullet holes, crackling and spattering. Hawkins checked his pulse. It stopped. The blood had already begun running close to the carpet. Grabbing him by one hand, Hawkins dragged the body into his room. He flipped open the window, lifted him up and dumped him into the bush
es four floors below.

  He ran up the hallway, carefully checking at the corners for the dead man’s partner, racing down to the elevator. The foyer was empty. The operator was sitting inside the cage, reading the paper. Hawkins backed into the car.

  “Down!”

  -94-

  “Put it down.”

  The elevator started descending. Hawkins spun around, back to the open car door, holding the Luger out. He and Ludwig were standing nose to nose, pistols pointed at each other’s heads.

  “No, put your hands up!” Hawkins said.

  “No. My men are coming and I know you’re alone.”

  “I’m not alone.”

  Ludwig jerked the handle. The car stopped.

  “No, you’re all alone. Britain is finished. You’re all finished.”

  Hawkins backed into the corridor, gun out. Ludwig followed.

  “Doctor! Stop and think. Ventnor’s dead. You can’t hide that. He’s Hoover’s friend. The federal police, the cops, this town will be teeming with them by nightfall. You can’t get away. They’ll put out a nationwide manhunt for you. Your only chance is to come over, work for us. We’ll take care of you, protect you—versteht? You are very valuable to us. If the Yanks catch you, you’ll fry! If you kill me, there’s no escaping that.”

  Ludwig stared, his gun hand minutely trembling. Jacobson and his men rounded a distant corner at the far end of the corridor. They spotted Ludwig and Hawkins’ reflection at an angle in a gigantic tall pier mirror. Ludwig saw them. He gasped in utter astonishment, “Nein!”

  Jacobson and the gang let loose with a set of pump shotguns, sending a volley down the long hall like a shooting gallery. The shots smashed into the mirror. It shattered in a rolling tidal wave of flying broken glass and gilt wood. Hawkins threw himself to the floor. Ludwig ducked into the elevator. More shots ripped the door. Then he leapt back out and ran down the hall to his room.

  Jacobson and his partners were carefully working their way up the hall, checking doors. Hawkins pointed where Ludwig disappeared. A nod from both. Hawkins stepped to one side, ready to try the knob. Herman misunderstood. He squeezed off a pair of rounds, blowing out a jagged, manhole-sized opening through the center of the door. Hawkins winced at the gaping splintered mess.

  “No wonder you got bagged on breakin’ and entering!” Jacobson hissed. Hawkins carefully bent down and peeked through. Empty. He motioned for them to stake out the adjoining rooms and climbed through.

  Ludwig and whoever he brought had run. He checked the next room. The sheets were pulled off Ventnor. Hawkins carefully poked at the jacket. The papers were still there, partly soaking in blood. Back in Ludwig’s room, Jacobson pointed at the window. The fire escape rope hung out. It’d broke about halfway down. A black form lay below.

  “Going down,” Hawkins said. Jacobson nodded and followed him back to the other room. Hawkins flipped the ancient rope down. This time no climbing. Slide down fast, before it breaks. He hit the pavement, hands burning.

  Hawkins flicked his lighter over the body. Not Ludwig. A man dressed all in black, including a black stocking cap. His leg was twisted under in a gruesome position, obviously broken. Bloody footsteps darted away toward the center of the courtyard. Hawkins rolled the man’s head over. There was one bullet hole in the jaw and several in the chest. The man fell, broke his leg. Ludwig shot him, used him as a cushion to break his fall and stepped in the blood.

  Hawkins groped next to a column, his eyes adjusting to the dark. Ludwig probably went out the open back. Probing his way with the Luger’s barrel, Hawkins began running from column to column under the covered piazza. In the distance Ludwig ducked behind a bush.

  A shot rang out. A bullet struck the column in front of him, tearing off a long splinter. Hawkins jumped behind the pillar. The other gunman, the one running down the hallway. From the loudness and the echo he was firing a rifle from above, across the courtyard. Hundreds of windows lined the side of the hotel wall. Impossible to see, Hawkins thought. Overhead Jacobson and his men began taking blind shots at Ludwig slowly crawling along the perimeter of the bushes, working his way toward the back entrance.

  Hawkins shouted up, “There’s a sniper on the other side!” The gunman fired again.

  They caught the muzzle flash. Jacobson’s voice floated down, “He’s on the inside porch roof!”

  They began blindly firing, missing wildly. The sniper started running around the sloping inside porch roof, trying to get to cover over them.

  -95-

  Twenty feet ahead hung a steel fire escape ladder. With a quick rolling motion Hawkins ran, leapt up and grabbed the bottom rung. He furiously climbed up past the lower three floors to the porch roof.

  The peaks and gables of the old hotel were silhouetted against the stars. A motion. The sniper had climbed to the edge of main roof, another two stories up, crouching behind an ornate cast-iron filigree roof ornament. The sniper fired. A bullet zinged overhead.

  Hawkins reached up over the roof, angling the gun in the right direction. The Luger spat out the shots, nearly emptying the snail drum magazine.

  The sniper threw himself flat behind the ironwork. Hawkins straightened up and glanced over the top. The second he stopped firing the man dashed up a ladder to the top of the high metal-covered mansard roof and leapt over to the other side.

  Hawkins climbed up over the ladder and began running. Halfway up the sloping porch roof his sock feet, shoeless all this time, started slipping on the slick metal. His knees cracked down. He shot toward the edge in a terrifying slide, fingernails uselessly scraping on the green copper sheeting. He looked back. More than four stories down. With a quick lunge he threw himself on his belly, spreading his legs wide. The friction of his entire body and hands broke his slide. His feet stopped inches from the edge of the roof.

  Craning one knee up, he carefully reached down and pulled off his socks. Bare feet gave traction on the cool smooth metal. Now he sprang up to the top of the roof. He found the ladder and rocketed up over the mansard. Another shot rang out. Hawkins fired back, missing, finishing off the big clip. He hastily slapped in the small one. The man ran toward the front side and began climbing down the fire escape.

  The Luger clicked uselessly. Hawkins pulled back the toggle. Jammed. He frantically picked at the stuck cartridge. Two dust-blue Lincoln Zephyrs from the casino were parked near the front. Daisy had come with them. When she heard the firing she ran up the street, shotgun in hand, watching the sniper climb down the ladder.

  Hawkins shouted, “Daisy! Shoot!” She hesitantly pointed the shotgun. “Shoot!” The barrel agonizingly wavered in the air. “Shoot!” Shooting a man on a ladder, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The gunman would kill her the instant he got down. “SHOOT!” She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. The shot missed by a dozen yards, sending tinkling window glass falling to the sidewalk. Hawkins remembered.

  He drew in a deep breath and calmly called, “Daisy! Pull!”

  She stood frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, shaking, face angled down, shotgun muzzle pointing at the curb. The instant he shouted “pull” her reflexes took over. She flipped her head up. The shotgun deftly snapped around. The shot rang out. The sniper fell several stories and vanished into a large hedge.

  Hawkins waved. She looked up at Hawkins and uneasily smiled. He pointed across the roof. She nodded and ran to the car.

  Hawkins ran back down to the far end of the roof, watching for Ludwig. Jacobson and his men had split up. Some took a chance on the escape ropes. The rest hit the stairs to the lobby. Now they were fanning out across the small park in the interior of the hotel courtyard, slowly stalking Ludwig through the bushes.

  Hawkins watched, his eyes straining in the darkness. They almost had Ludwig trapped. He found another fire ladder and swiftly scooted down, jumping to the bottom, his bare feet padding silently on the cold paving stones to the back of the piazza.

  Ludwig had managed to make it to the far side of a bandst
and three-quarters of the way down the courtyard. A locomotive in the yard blew its whistle, steam up. Just as the drive wheels surged around with a heavy, momentous chug, Ludwig drew out a pair of small round objects he’d taken from his dead assistant. Pulling a pin, he paused a second and chucked the grenades. One hit the fence, another landed at the end of the piazza. Hawkins heard the clank of iron on the stone tiles, recognized the sound and threw himself behind a small fountain.

  The grenade exploded with a cracking roar. The shrapnel screamed overhead, chopping the arms off a zinc statue guarding the fountain. Ludwig instantly burst for the hole in the fence, running madly for the train tracks on the opposite side of the street. The grenade’s brilliant flash blinded his pursuers. None fired in time. In a split second Ludwig broke away.

  Hawkins dashed through the hole after him. But Ludwig timed it faultlessly. He held a moment, like a runner on the blocks, then dove in front of the train a second before it passed. He landed safely on the other side as the freight glided by.

  Hawkins skidded to a stop inches in front of the big wheels. He nearly threw the Luger down. Then—wait. It’s a slow freight, he thought, isn’t moving that fast. I can catch the ladder on the side of the boxcar. Only a few hard yards. He began sprinting. The ladder approached. He threw himself against the side of the car, catching it with one hand.

  The freight started slowly picking up speed, rolling faster and faster, dragging Hawkins down the tracks. He scrambled for a footing, pulling up straight, grabbing higher with the other hand, lifting himself up and got a foot on the bottom rung. He climbed up and over the top of the car and found the ladder on the other side. He half fell down. The momentum of the train carried him along with a few huge lurching, tumbling steps. He fell on his hands and knees, throat raw and burning, heart ricocheting from side to side from the effort.

  In the distance, the sound of tires screeching. A car was speeding down a side street into the dark countryside. He caught his breath, got up and staggered back down to the point where Ludwig leapt across. The yards and streets were empty.