by Peter Quinn
The city’s editorial writers hollered for investigations of the gangs, the police, the city administration. Mayor Jimmy Walker sat down with Rothstein. Tammany and the mob both wanted the heat off. Rothstein promised to deliver the culprit, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Orgen offered up Lenny Moss as a sacrificial lamb. Brannigan pretended to investigate.
Dunne knew it was a set-up, but refused to go along. He didn’t back up Brannigan’s canned testimony when he was called to the stand. They got Moss anyway. On the way out of the courtroom, Brannigan pulled him aside.
You’re finished in the department, Dunne.
If it means never working with you again, Brannigan, score this my lucky day.
After the Moss case, Inspector William Hanlon, a taciturn, honest cop, was pushed aside. Brannigan was promoted to Borough Inspector and made head of the Homicide Squad. He saw to it that any time an old man was found hanging from a light fixture, his last act before reaching the Happy Hunting Ground to shit his pajamas, Dunne was sure to get the case. Corpse in there three days with the windows closed before the neighbors call the cops. When some mop jockey gave his wife a hundred whacks with a rusty shovel and splashed her brains across the basement floor, everybody knew who’d get the call. Hubby doesn’t try to run or get away. Cradles the corpse in his arms. Not exactly a case for Charlie Chan. The nights there were no bughouse homicides were spent at the morgue waiting for the results of one of Doc Cropsey’s autopsies, listening to him gripe and guzzle cheap bootlegged whiskey.
That last night, in the spring of ’29, there was a call from a warehouse on 12th Avenue. A clerk opened a locker that a renter defaulted on, pulled down a trunk that crashed to the floor, and spilled out the skeletal remains of three babies. Address of the renter turned out to be an empty lot in the Bronx. Doc Cropsey said the skeletons were full-term triplets. Suffocated at birth, probably. The most unglamorous, underreported crime of all: babies in varying states of decay in trash cans, basement corners, railroad restrooms, underpasses, wherever. He estimated they’d been dead several years.
It was a beautiful spring morning when the shift was over and it was time to get back to headquarters. The sky was streaked with hues of red and blue, dawn’s early light. Dunne threw the badge on the desk. You win, Brannigan. The Hackett Building felt like heaven those first few months. He’d hardly given the homicide business another thought, until now.
Roberta returned to the couch and stretched out in the same position as before. “That day you testified, I was in the back, in a cloche hat, next to Lenny’s mother.”
“Didn’t notice. I had other things on my mind.”
“Lenny said you were the only cop who didn’t lie.”
“Got juiced all the same.”
“I saw him in Sing Sing. He said he never met a cop but you who didn’t lie when it was convenient or he was told to. He couldn’t seem to get over it.”
Dunne drained his drink. “So you wait ten years to look me up and let me know Lenny Moss thought I was okay? Wish I could say I was grateful, only I’d be lying.”
“It was you looked me up.”
She had a point.
“And after a view of me once ten years ago in a crowded courtroom, you look out the window and recognize me from four stories up? Quite a feat.”
“I didn’t know it was you, not from here. I thought it might be. It wasn’t till I tailed you back to your office I was sure.”
“No man ever followed me I didn’t know it.”
“Last time I looked I wasn’t a man.”
The moon in the painting above her head contained the vague suggestion of a face, craters for eyes, a nose. Mister Moon seemed to be winking.
“All this to help the brother—excuse me, half brother—of your dressmaker? Sorry, Miss Dee, but I can’t figure why you got involved in this, or better yet, why I should.”
“Because Elba Corado is different.”
“From what?”
“You and me. Elba thinks this is a world where the good, the true, and the beautiful should come out on top. You and me, we know that the beautiful does okay, long as it lasts, but where’d goodness and truth ever get anyone? Wouldn’t it be nice, this once, to see the good and the true at least finish in the money? That’s why I sent Elba to you. She loves her brother, and love can take us to the strangest places. It’s made her so passionate about his innocence that it’s like a religion with her. I figured any dick in this town gives her an honest shake, it’d be you.”
“I already got a religion.” He pushed himself out of the chair, feeling woozy as he did. He knew what he should do: go home, piss out the Scotch, have a nap, visit Brannigan, and start looking for another divorce case. “Besides, I don’t come cheap.”
“She has her own business. I’m sure she’ll meet your terms, but she’ll want her money’s worth. What she doesn’t want is some worm working from the cockeyed notion of turning this into a romance.”
“Do I look like some dime-store gigolo?”
“You look like a man, which means it’s better to be up front at the starting gate and let you know this is a race for geldings.”
She led him to the door.
From where he stood, the picture on the far wall seemed to have darkened. Mister Moon was missing his smile. He remembered what it reminded him of: the cover of Real Detective, only the couple and the approaching thugs were missing.
“I’ll let Elba know you’ve agreed. She’ll be thrilled.” She pecked him lightly on the cheek. The passing touch of her lips: a kiss, almost. Her breasts pressed for an instant against his arm, a professional goodbye. “You’re a mensch.”
The day had turned cloudy and rain seemed imminent. Grand Army Plaza was almost empty. The strollers were gone, and the WPA crew. No one around to defend or watch over, the figures on the monument seemed forlorn. Roberta Dee was up to something besides the pursuit of the good and the true. He’d had the same uneasy feeling with Mrs. Babcock. A feeling you couldn’t acquire by reading Real Detective. It came the hard way.
Some day he might be smart enough to pay attention to it.
He lifted the notebook from his pocket and, starting to write a list of the people he’d want to talk to about Walter Grillo, realized he didn’t even know the name of the nurse Grillo had been convicted of killing or the date set for his execution. A lot he didn’t know. But the minute he put the notebook away and walked toward the subway, he knew he was being tailed.
2
Since taking power, Adolf Hitler has silenced or sent into exile most of his opponents. He has also won the loyalty of large numbers of Germans, many of whom were skeptical at best and hostile at worst. Georg D., a foreman in a shoe factory in the northeast part of Berlin that has lately been given over to producing boots for the army, is a case in point. He walks with a slight limp, the result of being shot in the hip by a British sniper during the war. “I work all the time now, but I’m not complaining,” he says. “Better to be exhausted than unemployed. Three years I was out of work. We barely had enough to eat. My boy got crooked legs from the rickets.” Each evening, after leaving the factory, Georg D. and his comrades stop in a nearby tavern to talk and drink beer. Most of the conversation is about sports, not politics. Georg D. observes that “Men talk only politics when they’re frightened or unhappy. That is not the situation now.”
Outside, away from the others, he sits on a bench to enjoy his pipe and muses about the changes that have occurred since the National Socialists came to power. “When times were bad and there was no work to be found, I thought about joining the Communists. But today I’m satisfied with matters as they are.” He is happy also to see Germany’s rightful return to its status as a great nation. From inside the tavern comes the sound of an accordion. Voices sing the anthem written by Horst Wessel, hero and martyr of the movement’s street-fighting days (thug and pimp in the eyes of the opposition):
Millions, full of hope, look up at the swastika;
The day bre
aks for freedom and for bread.
“Our pride and prosperity have been restored, and all without a single shot being fired!” he says and taps his foot in time with the music.
—IAN ANDERSON, Travels in the New Germany
ABWEHR HEADQUARTERS, 72-76 TIRPITZ-UFER, BERLIN
Admiral, wake up. It’s time for your lunch.
A distant voice, a gentle nudge.
He listened first: drone of traffic, faint but reassuring sound of Berlin going about its business, then opened his eyes. The ceiling came into focus, followed by the broad, empty expanse of Corporal Gresser’s East Prussian face, his hair as pale as Vistula sand. Behind him was the mantelpiece with clock and ship’s model of the Dresden. The solid, reliable world.
“Gresser, I was dreaming, wasn’t I?”
“Herr Admiral, you are the judge of that.”
“Did I say anything?”
“You muttered, Herr Admiral, the way sleeping men do.” Gresser moved to the window and pulled open the curtain. In the bathroom next to his office, Admiral Canaris ran cold water and splashed his face. He tried to recall his dream but couldn’t. In the mirror, Gresser stood slightly to the rear, towel on his arm.
“I’ll have a fresh shirt for you after lunch, Herr Admiral.”
Canaris felt beneath his arms. Perspiration had soaked through. “I’ll need a fresh undergarment as well.” He took the towel from Gresser’s arms and dried his hands and face. On his desk was a tray with a silver coffeepot, a plate laden with smoked herring, boiled beets, butter-slathered slice of bread.
Gresser poured the cup full, then retreated toward the door.
“Leave the pot,” Canaris said.
“I’ve typed out your schedule, Herr Admiral. It’s beside the phone.”
Lifting the cup with one hand, Canaris slipped on his glasses with the other. Conference at 3 on the situation in Spain. Meeting with the new British naval attaché at 4. Dr. Arnheim at 5:30.
“Gresser, I didn’t ask for an appointment with Arnheim, did I?”
“He requested it with you, Herr Admiral.”
“Didn’t you think to check with me first?”
“He was here in person during your nap, Herr Admiral. Said it was urgent that he have a few minutes with you. I checked your schedule. The time is available.”
“Well, call him back. Tell him you were mistaken. Tell him I’m otherwise engaged or been called away on an emergency. Anything.”
A once-a-year obligatory physical was more than enough of Arnheim’s ashen face, sharp snout, and sour mouth better suited to an undertaker than a doctor. A high-ranking officer in the National Socialist Physicians League, an old Party man, noted expert in the field of racial hygiene and friend of Dr. Karl Brandt, the Führer’s personal physician, Arnheim had lost no time in assuming the practices of first one, then several Jewish doctors who’d been forced to leave the country by the anti-Semitic provisions of the Reich Physicians Ordinance and the Nuremberg Race Laws. He liked to talk. A vexing habit in many doctors, chattering away when they should be quietly focused on their duties. Worse, he gave the same speech at the end of every annual examination.
Good health is part of our duty to the nation and the race. That’s why over half the doctors in this country have joined the party! No other profession can make such a boast! Not even lawyers! The Führer is a model for us all. Never smokes. A vegetarian. Refrains from coffee and tea. A living testament to the venerable truth of mens sana in corpore sano. A sound mind in a sound body.
The metal dish of Arnheim’s stethoscope slid across Canaris’s hairless chest, a cold sensation that made him shiver. You need more exercise, Herr Admiral, and stop drinking so much coffee. Caffeine is ruinous to the stomach. If your bowels bother you, here’s the culprit: coffee! The German people look to its leadership for example, Herr Admiral. The Führer’s put us in the vanguard of racial health and eugenical progress. We’ve overtaken the United States in these areas. We must not falter!
Canaris blew on the coffee and took a gulp. Liquid in, liquid out. Chronic diarrhea. He snapped open the gold lighter on his desk and puffed alive the cigarette. We who are about to shit, salute you! He walked quickly to the bathroom. The third time today. As soon as he sat, there was a hesitant knock.
“What is it, Gresser?”
“Herr Admiral, while you were asleep, you had a call you may wish to return before too long.” The thick mahogany door made Gresser’s voice sound distant and insignificant.
“Speak up, Gresser. Who called?”
“General Heydrich.”
“Did he say what he wanted?” The knot in his stomach seemed to momentarily tighten.
“His secretary said that the General was sorry you couldn’t join him for a morning ride. The General is concerned for your health. He wishes you to call.”
“Assuredly, Gresser.” There was little Heydrich needed to be told. He probably read Arnheim’s reports before they were typed. Knew better than the patients themselves the condition of heart, brain, liver. Search for some lever. Syphilis. Epilepsy. Alcoholism. Peer at blood specimens through the lens of a microscope to spot any tiny, telltale swarms of Mogen Davids.
Again the knock, the muffled voice.
“What is it now?”
“Your wife, Herr Admiral. She also telephoned. You’re meeting her at six-thirty at the Capitol Cinema. She was quite firm. You’re not to be late!”
Erika had the Berliner’s passion for moviegoing. He rarely went except on occasions like tonight, her birthday, or when she grew sullen and withdrawn, feeling he was neglecting her. Most times they went to American films, especially the romantic comedies, which were her favorite. He found them predictable and boring. He stopped paying attention after a few minutes. He liked the American cartoons, which sometimes preceded the movie, anthropomorphic ducks and rodents in their inevitable melee, a Walpurgisnacht of frenetic thwacks and bonks from which everyone emerged unscathed.
Once, before the newsreels had acquired their present level of hysteria and bombast, he had seen himself in one. Erika jabbed her elbow into his ribs, “Willi, that’s you on the screen!” He was among the dignitaries and officials bidding bon voyage to the airship Graf Zeppelin as it left from Tempelhof Airport on a mission of polar exploration. Aboard was a company of distinguished scientists and a small group of naval intelligence officers who were undertaking a journey of 8,000 miles that was to be covered in just nine days. The excitement was manifest, the spectators scooting this way and that, waving, saluting. He was on and off the screen in an instant. A casual observer might not have noticed his awkward discomfort at being caught by the camera, but he did, every bit of it, clumsy gestures, half salute, his inane, unnatural smile.
“You’re a movie star!” Erika said as they exited the theater.
He dropped the cigarette butt in the toilet and flushed. It spun around like a ship caught in a maelstrom and vanished down the pipe. He washed his hands. The face in the mirror had black circles beneath the eyes; yellow nicotine stains on the upper and lower teeth. He pushed the hair back from his forehead. A line in a slow retreat. Premature gray giving way to white. Some movie star.
Arnheim was right. He needed more exercise. Once he had been rigorous in his devotion to physical fitness. It was particularly important for sailors who spent months at sea. He’d seen enough officers trussed up in corsets so they’d look suitably trim in their dress uniforms to know the dangers of idleness. He’d walked the decks and went up and down ladders till his legs hurt. On land, he’d been a faithful visitor to the officer’s gymnasium. Now, given the demands on his time, the best he managed was horseback riding or the strolls with Lieutenant Colonel Hans Oster, his deputy at the Office of Military Intelligence. But it would be untrue, he knew, to ascribe the strolls to a desire to stay fit. It was Oster’s outspokenness—more and more venturing beyond frankness to recklessness—which drove him outdoors, away from the casual eavesdropping of co-workers or subordinates or passersby.<
br />
Canaris was barely back at his desk when Oster entered in his usual manner, sauntering past Gresser and not bothering to knock. He’d ignored complaints about his unannounced entries for so long that Canaris stopped making them. Oster fell onto the couch, sprawling rather than sitting.
Although only a year older, Canaris felt far senior, like a professor indulging a bright but undisciplined undergraduate. He recognized in Oster one of a type: the veterans forever changed by the fronterlebnis, the shared experience of the Western Front. They were marked by the same insouciance and cynicism; the same adolescent impatience with rank and routine; the same spirit that helped drive the Freikorps, the soldiers and sailors who’d joined together at the war’s end to put down the Reds. It had also been on display in the Brown Shirts, or SA, the Storm Troopers who’d spearheaded the rise of the National Socialists. Like the vast majority of the officer corps, Oster had been in sympathy with them at the start. But, unlike most, he’d soured rapidly on what he saw as a regime incurably poisoned by thuggery, corruption, and overreaching ambition. To one degree or another, there were other officers with similar opinions, a relatively small percentage to be sure, but few as poor at masking their contempt as Oster.
“Have you seen Piekenbrock’s report?” Oster said.
“You know my feelings on the matter.” Canaris initialed a stack of requisition forms. He would not be drawn in. He had stated his views on the subject emphatically, so no one could infer a different interpretation, or leap from a criticism of particular acts to an attack on the regime.