The Hour of the Cat

by Peter Quinn

  He tore the pamphlet into small pieces, bristling with angry resentment at the insufferable sanctimoniousness of those who ignored the brute realities of rebuilding and defending the Reich. Aware of what had transpired and unwilling to let it drop, Erika had raised the issue of the Jews the evening before, ruining what he had hoped would be a quiet, romantic supper. At first, he restrained himself from commenting on her description of the abuse endured by several Jews of her acquaintance. He would do what he could, he said, to expedite their departure from Germany, if that’s what they wished.

  He turned the conversation to the larger context of contemporary events. He reminded her of the chaos that had followed Germany’s defeat and the need to restore order, stability, and love of fatherland. More than ever before, Germans needed to be united as one people. The Jews had never been truly accepted as part of the fatherland. For better or worse, it was too late to change that. “Wouldn’t everyone be better off if they went somewhere they were welcomed and felt at home?”

  “Most of them have been here for centuries. They feel at home here. At least they did.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. What was the use of trying to explain? “Look, my dear,” he said, “let’s order dinner and leave such matters to those entrusted with the nation’s destiny. Besides, politics is bad for the appetite, or so my doctor tells me.” He wanted to make her smile.

  She withdrew her hand. Her green accusing eyes sharpened into an aculeate glare: What is it that drives you besides ambition and duty?

  Instead of culminating in lovemaking, as he’d expected, the night ended with him staying in the guest room. Sleep had been elusive. He summoned Gresser and instructed him to hold all calls and turn away any visitors, particularly Oster. He pulled the curtains shut, lay on the couch, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep, a few moments free of doubts, dread. Trying not to think, he sank into the dark, momentarily unsure if he was awake or asleep.

  “Hush, you bastards! Look what I’ve caught!”

  An oil slick glides across the black water of the Landwehr Canal, a herring-shaped membrane. The gray monochrome landscape of Berlin in the aftermath of the Spartacist revolt. In the bleak, influenza-ridden winter of 1919, the Freikorp troops hold the whole city in their grip. They tease the navy man in their midst. “Was you salts got the revolution underway. Took the likes of us to turn the tide against the Reds.” The sergeant is as drunk as his men. The warm, revolting taste of their spit seasons the schnapps-filled canteen they pass around. The soldiers are searching the canal for the corpse of Rosa Luxemburg, the diva of the Left, who’d helped lead the unsuccessful attempt of the radicals in the Sparatacist League to seize control of the infant Republic and ignite a Red revolution. The buildings across the way, once prosperous counting houses, are abandoned, windows boarded up, sad, deflated façades of Berlin in the first winter after the surrender.

  The soldiers troll their grappling irons like fishermen’s hooks. Only recently, their commander had tossed Red Rosa in the canal after smashing her skull, but now the government wants the corpse in order to try the murderers. They laugh as they go about their work, knowing that the real purposes are to make sure the Reds don’t get hold of any relics of their “Saint Rosa” and the gathering of evidence doesn’t provide anything to be used against her murderers. They banter with each other, finally ignoring the reserved but fidgety naval officer who supervises their work.

  A soldier yells once more for them to hush. “Look, you bastards, I’ve caught us a fish!” He tosses a rope to his fellows on the bridge who wrap it around a cast-iron newel and haul a dripping hulk out of the water into the air. As it twists about, arms still tightly bound behind its back, a mix of silt and spoiled brains pours from the gaping hole in the right side of its head. The soldier reaches up and stops the body from revolving by sticking a bayonet in its crotch. “What have we here?” he says. He pokes some more with the bayonet. “Not Rosa, but one of her boyfriends, it seems.” He jams the bayonet farther in. “And what do you know, our Red friend has an iron dick. Won’t the whores of Berlin be glad to welcome him back from the dead!” The platoon of inebriated, war-hardened men joins in the laughter. They play with their catch. They’ve forgotten the naval officer, who slips down an alleyway beside the counting houses to a place stranger still, a ruined, sulfurous landscape that looks as though swept by fire. Shattered bricks and the smoldering carcasses of horses and men are everywhere. The entire city seems to have been blown apart except for the squat, concrete, bunker-like structure directly ahead. A crowd of emaciated people in tattered clothing waits to get in. Their shaved heads make it hard to tell if they are men or women. They push and shove their way into a windowless room. Wet tingle of concrete floor beneath bare feet. Look down: instead of feet, legs end in rodent’s paws, curled about them what seems a slimy rubber hose.

  It can’t be removed or discarded. It’s attached, this rat’s tail!

  Don’t tell me my brave soldier boy is scared!

  O Gresser, usher me back from the sleeping nightmare to the waking one. My loyal corporal, get me out!

  A distant voice, a gentle nudge.

  “Admiral, wake up. It’s time for your lunch.”

  THE HACKETT BUILDING, NEW YORK

  Dunne stayed away from the Hackett Building until he was sure Brannigan wasn’t about to pick up where he’d left off. Deciding it was safe to pay a visit, he searched the closet for a suit that was presentable. The nearest he came was a dark-blue poplin that Lily had picked out on one of those rare shopping trips she’d shanghaied him on. He pitched everything out of his traveling grip except shorts, sweat shirt and canvas shoes. He stuck the folder he’d rescued from Toby Butts beneath his gear and caught a cab.

  For an instant, he thought he was in the wrong place. The lobby had been reborn, walls and ceilings re-plastered and painted, marble floors steam-cleaned and polished, a new brass-framed directory mounted by the entrance. There was no trace of the jerrybuilt receptionist’s stand. An attendant wearing a red-trimmed gray uniform and a floorwalker’s smile blocked the way to the elevator. He asked if he could be of help. His happy-to-serve-you face evaporated as soon as Dunne introduced himself.

  “The landlord’s been trying to reach you, Mr. Dunne, for some time,” he said. “Arrears in rent are remediable, if a payment schedule can be arranged, but visits from the police are disruptive to the other tenants and physically destructive of the premises. Regretfully, the landlord has decided to seek an official order of eviction.” The attendant backed away as he spoke, as if afraid of being grabbed by the throat, an outcome he might have already met at the hands of those to whom he’d given similar news.

  Jerroff was on the phone with his door open. An electric fan was pointed in his face. He hung up when he saw Dunne and waddled into the hallway. A notice of eviction was stuck to Dunne’s door and there was a dent in the jam where Brannigan and crew had pried their way in. Dunne pushed the door open with his foot. The contents of the desk and file cabinet had been emptied on the floor.

  “I tried to warn you,” Jerroff said from behind. “I called you at home several times but never got an answer.”

  “I took a vacation.” He ripped the eviction notice from the door.

  “The landlord wants us out. I got a notice, too. Only a month or two behind in the rent. Since when is that a crime?”

  Dunne walked over to open the window, leaving a trail of footprints on the carpet of files and papers. He started scooping them up and piling them on the desk.

  “I listened for your phone when I could,” Jerroff said. “But I probably missed more than I answered. The messages and your mail are in my office.” He darted next door and returned with a stack of papers held together by a rubber band.

  “Miss Corado was most anxious to reach you.”

  There were a dozen “please call” messages from Elba, several from Roberta Dee, a few from bill collectors, the landlord, and one from Tommy Hines. The mail con
sisted of fliers and bills, and the envelope that he’d mailed himself after visiting Miss Lynch’s apartment. He ripped off the end, shook the key into his hand, and put it in his pocket. Jerroff prattled on about the tenants who’d already been evicted and the jacked-up rents the landlord was demanding. Finally, he excused himself and went back to his office.

  It took almost an hour to gather all the papers, put them in proper sequence, and refile them. He called Tommy Hines several times before he reached him. Hines had Roberta Dee’s sheet. He said that it took a bit of searching—the name turned out to be an alias—and agreed to meet at Rostoff’s at 3:00 P.M. Be a “service charge” of twenty bucks, which was “cut-rate cheap” compared to what he’d normally get, Hines said. “But you bein’ an old acquaintance, I’m lowerin’ the price.”

  Dunne barely had the phone back in its black-sprocketed cradle when the doorknob rattled, as though someone were testing to see if the door were unlocked; it swung open with enough force to make the glass panel shake. Roberta Dee entered wearing a black dress and a black saucer-style hat with a half-veil of crisscrossed lace.

  “People with manners knock,” Dunne said.

  “I was afraid you might turn out to be a snake. I was wrong. You’re a lot lower.”

  “Let me guess. You paid the pipsqueak downstairs to call you when I came back.”

  “Reprehensible, isn’t it, spying on people like that?”

  “You’re in the wrong business. Should’ve been a private eye.”

  “I couldn’t stoop that low.”

  “Have a seat.”

  “I’d rather not. Let’s get this over quick as possible. Elba can’t believe you betrayed her. Wish I could say the same. Giver her money back or I go to the cops.”

  “The money is gone, and you won’t go to the cops because you know better.”

  “I thought I’d already met the worst scum this city has to offer. Until now.”

  “The cops stole Elba’s money.”

  “Come now, a major-league liar like you can do better than that.”

  “They made it clear they don’t want me near the Lynch murder, six stitches and a concussion clear.”

  “You look tan and fit to me.”

  Dunne bowed his head and pushed away the hair covering where Dr. Finkelstein had removed the stitches. “Believe it or not, I didn’t do this to myself.”

  Roberta lowered herself onto the edge of the chair, gingerly, as though it might be septic. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Figured the best thing was to lie low and let ’em think I was scared off.”

  “Meanwhile Wilfredo is a lot closer to being electrocuted.”

  “Just have to work faster.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because it’s the truth and because I’m already on the case and the next dick you go to will probably take you for a ride.”

  “That’s the best you can say for yourself?”

  “Don’t like it, there’s the door. I’ll mail Elba back her money as soon as I can raise it. Sorry if I’ve disappointed her. She’s a sweet kid.”

  “So sweet you took her to City Island to watch the sunset. Do you think I don’t know what that was about?”

  “I wanted her to tell me about Wilfredo. She did. That was it.”

  “Just because a snake didn’t strike doesn’t mean it wasn’t poised to.” Roberta lifted the veil from her face, plucked a silver cigarette case from her purse, lit one, and threw the matches on the desk.

  “Suppose you tell me your real interest in this case,” Dunne said.

  She put the cigarette to her lips and took several short puffs. The chair made a loud cracking noise as she leaned back in it. “You need new furniture.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help her save her brother.”

  “Too bad he won’t do the same for himself. I went to see him. The state won’t have to pay anybody to strap him into the electric chair. He’ll do it himself.” Dunne picked up the matchbook. The cover was embossed with a champagne glass. Above it was a pair of dice showing a five and a two, lucky seven; beneath, in fancy script, BEN MARDEN’S RIVIERA, FORT LEE, NEW JERSEY.

  “Play it straight, that’s all I ask.” She crossed her legs. Her ankles and calves, hosed in black silk, were every bit as shapely as Elba’s.

  He pushed up his sleeves. “No tricks, see.”

  “Wasn’t your sleeves I was thinking of.”

  “How about I buy you dinner?”

  “Where?”

  He handed back the matches. “Ben Marden’s.”

  “You can read.” She dropped the matches in her purse. “But can you drive?”

  “Seems you can.”

  “My last time to Ben Marden’s was with Clem Babcock. His chauffeur drove.”

  “Mine’s on vacation.”

  “Pick you up at eight.”

  “Your car?”

  “No, but I’m resourceful. I know where to get one.”

  “One other thing,” Dunne shuffled some papers on his desk. “I need an advance.”

  “So you can take me out to dinner?”

  “That and some other things.”

  She opened her purse and laid several bills on his desk. “Do me a favor. Try to hold on to them until tonight.”

  “Thanks.” He folded the money and stuck it in his pocket. “Hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look like you’re on your way to a funeral.”

  “Coming from. There was a memorial service for Clem Babcock at St. Thomas’s Church on Fifth Avenue. The funeral was private, so friends and acquaintances could say goodbye. Clem’s secretary was decent enough to call me. I’m glad I went. There were eleven people in the church.”

  “Not a lot of regard in this town for the dead.”

  “Or the living.” Softly, Roberta closed the door behind her.

  Rostoff’s was almost deserted, the post-lunch lull disturbed only by the rattle of dishes as the tray boy cleared the tables. Tommy Hines was in the back, hands around a glass of iced tea. He surveyed the room as Dunne took a seat.

  “Got the money?”

  “Nice to see you too, Tommy.”

  “Yeah, sure. Only doin’ this as a personal favor ’cause you were a cop. Can’t be sure who to trust nowadays, with Dewey and his crowd pokin’ their noses everywhere. My uncle goes on trial soon. Gettin’ harder and harder to make a decent livin’.”

  Dunne reached in his back pocket to get his wallet. A hand grabbed his knee.

  “Under the table,” Hines said in a harsh whisper, “put it under the table.” Dunne passed the money to him. Hines lowered his eyes and counted the bills. Only a ten and two fives but it seemed to take him a moment to tally. He slid the file into Dunne’s hand. “Don’t pull it out till I’m gone. Fifteen minutes, I’m back and the folder is right here on this table, where I forgot it. After that I’m thinkin’ to myself, ‘Ain’t that a coincidence, bumpin’ into Fintan Dunne again?’” He jabbed Dunne’s shoulder. “Fifteen minutes. Over that, there’s an extra charge, and no discount.”

  The name on the filing tab, Rosalinda Dorsch, was followed by a trio of AKAs: Linda Doors, Rosa De Marco, and Roberta Dee. Dunne recognized the story inside as interchangeable with thousands of other files filled with crimes and misdemeanors. Born Rosalinda Dorsch, November 22, 1901, on Essex Street. Mother’s occupation: seamstress. Father deceased. Charged in Brooklyn Magistrate’s Court with vagrancy and truancy, September 1916. Arrested March 1917, after having run away from the reformatory for loitering for the purposes of prostitution. Charges dismissed. Defendant ordered returned to Cedar Knolls. Arrested April 1920 while riding in a stolen vehicle with Lenny Moskowitz (AKA Lenny Moss). Pled guilty to being an accessory. Sentenced to 60 days in the Women’s House of Detention. Arrested November 1923 on the premises of Georgia Hurfritz’s boarding house at 420 Sterling Place on suspicion of prostitution. Gave false identification to arresting of
ficer, using alias of Linda Doors. Charges reduced to disorderly conduct. Sixty days in the Women’s House of Detention. Arrested July 1926, in Mickey Luria’s Angel Club, 370 Ludlow Street, an unlicensed nightclub serving illegal alcohol on the premises. Gives false identification to the arresting officer, using alias of Rosa De Marco. Charged in Manhattan Magistrate’s Court with resisting arrest and soliciting for the purpose of prostitution. Pleads guilty to reduced charge of disorderly conduct and loitering on the premises of an illegal establishment. Ninety days in the Women’s House of Detention. Arrested December 1930, on the premises of Rita Vander’s at 112 Water Street. Gives false identification to the arresting officer, using alias of Roberta Dee. Charged in Criminal Court with being employed in a house of prostitution. Case tried March 28 & 29, 1931. Disposition: acquittal.

  As far as Dunne could tell, Roberta’s story was only different in two ways. First, she’d managed to go through a trial and be acquitted, which meant that the madam, Rita Vander, had either hired a good lawyer, pulled some strings with a Tammany judge, or both. Second, although she hadn’t left the profession, she’d apparently managed to go off on her own and not be arrested since 1931. The way Lucky Luciano had taken control of the prostitution racket and the massive crackdown that Dewey had undertaken to break his hold, both pointed to a single conclusion: She was neither a helpless victim nor the gold-hearted whore of popular legend, but a tough, independent player who refused to end up like so many of her co-workers, used and tossed aside.