Fear Itself

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘He didn’t hit his head, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘He just drowned?’

  The cop looked at him incredulously. ‘You know how cold the water is this time of year? 50, maybe 55 degrees.’

  ‘So how did he come to be in the water?’

  The cop snorted. ‘He’s the only guy who knows the answer to that. Why don’t you try asking him?’ Nessheim shot the cop a look, and he moderated his tone. ‘Maybe he lost his balance. It happens, you know. This isn’t the first guy we’ve fished out of the lake. Chances are he couldn’t swim. He falls in somehow, a wave carries the boat out of reach, and Jiminy Cricket, one more ticket for the morgue gets sold.’

  ‘No life jacket, eh?’

  ‘No. He looked just like this when he was found.’

  ‘Anything on him?’ He had turned to face the cop, though really only so he wouldn’t have to look at Le Saux.

  ‘Just a wallet. Not much in it. Five bucks, a Pabst ID card, and a snapshot of his wife.’

  Nessheim took a deep breath. ‘Get me her address, will ya? I’m done here.’

  The Le Sauxs lived in one of a row of brick houses, half a mile from the brewery on its downtown side. Inside, it was tidy and depressingly small. To Nessheim’s relief a policeman had already been round to break the news, and when he arrived Mary Le Saux had stopped crying. She was a small woman in a kitchen apron, with black hair that curled around her ears, and thin lips which she kept pursing, tic-like. She took him into the front sitting room, then closed the door. The children were upstairs, she explained, sitting upright on the front edge of a sofa while Nessheim sat down in a broad-backed rocking chair.

  ‘Do they know what my husband was doing out on his boat?’ she asked him.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he admitted. ‘He might have been fishing.’ There had been rods in the empty skiff, two of them, but they were stowed neatly under the plank seats, with no signs of recent use.

  ‘He sometimes fished at night,’ she said. ‘But never without telling me. It wasn’t like him, Mr Nessheim.’

  ‘Did he ever mention people he went fishing with?’

  She shook her head. ‘He liked to fish alone. “My thinking time”, he called it.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t know the name Peter Heydeman?’

  ‘No. Did he mention him?’ When Nessheim nodded she said, ‘Maybe he knew him from work. He had friends there – lots of friends. My husband was a popular man, Mr Nessheim.’

  He could believe that; he’d liked Eddie Le Saux himself, but was trying not to let that get in the way. He saw Mary Le Saux hesitate, so he didn’t say anything, and waited.

  At last she said hesitantly, ‘I guess now that Eddie’s gone you’ll have to stop paying him.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said, masking his distaste, telling himself that it was only natural she’d be worried about money, even this soon after her husband’s death.

  She nodded, and stood up. As they went into the hall, a child brushed past him – a boy, on his way out the front door. There was another noise behind him, and when Nessheim turned he saw a little girl. She was no more than five or six, and stood in the doorway of the kitchen, illuminated by the harsh light of its bare bulb. She had red hair that flared out from her temples like wings, and a big gap between her two front teeth which he noticed when she smiled at him. But what he really took in were the two braces on her legs, and the crude walker she leaned on with both hands for support.

  ‘Izzie,’ said her mother, ‘Go back and sit down.’ And though Mary was clearly keen for him to go, Nessheim watched as the little girl gradually turned the walker, and stumped slowly back into the kitchen.

  ‘You’d better leave now, Mr Nessheim. She’ll be showing you her letter from FDR if you don’t.’

  So it was polio. Suddenly he understood Eddie’s willingness to act as an informer. It had been the money all right, but not for himself or the Party. For his daughter. Even the diehard old-style Communist had put family first. Good for you, thought Nessheim, in what was as close to a blessing as he could supply to the dead Le Saux.

  He was about to say goodbye when Mary Le Saux spoke again. ‘There’s something I don’t understand, Mr Nessheim.’ She spoke abstractedly, almost dreamily, and he decided she was still in shock after all. ‘How can you drown with a life jacket on?’

  ‘The water was very cold.’ Then he realised what she’d just said. ‘Eddie wasn’t wearing a life jacket, Mrs Le Saux.’

  There was nothing vague about her voice now. ‘I don’t believe that for a minute. He may have loved fishing, Mr Nessheim, but Eddie was scared of the water. Absolutely terrified. He wouldn’t even get into his boat on the shore without putting a life jacket on. The police must have taken it off before you got there.’

  When he arrived back on the nineteenth floor of the Bankers Building he headed straight towards Ferguson’s office, but Tatie intercepted him in the corridor. ‘I wouldn’t barge in right now if I were you,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Something’s up. Go calm down and I’ll try and get you in.’

  When he went back to the Bullpen he found no one working – the typists were in small conspiratorial conversations which they broke off when he walked by, then resumed. The senior agents had deserted their offices and stood in a group, smoking at the back of the floor next to the small kitchen, which held a kettle and mugs for coffee, and a cupboard for the harder stuff that came out for leaving parties, promotion parties, birthday parties – any occasion providing an excuse for a drink. But no one was drinking now.

  Nessheim was in no mood to stand around speculating, so he went to his desk and started his report on the death of Eddie Le Saux. It seemed important to get that done, though he wanted to tell Ferguson in person what he’d discovered. He had just finished when Tatie stood at the edge of the Bullpen and gave him the nod. As he got to Ferguson’s office, two stiff-looking men in suits were leaving.

  Ferguson sat at his desk, looking harried. For a flicker of a moment, Nessheim felt sorry for him, then the SAC looked up and snapped, ‘Make it quick.’

  ‘My informant Le Saux is dead. They found him floating in Lake Michigan. I think his death wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘He got bumped off? How interesting,’ he said blandly.

  Nessheim explained about the life jacket – its absence, and what Mary Le Saux had said about her husband’s fear of the water. ‘He didn’t drown by accident, and I’d bet ten to one it has to do with the information he gave me about the Bund.’

  ‘Would you now?’ asked Ferguson. Nessheim was surprised; he had expected more resistance.

  ‘You see—’ Nessheim started but Ferguson cut him off.

  ‘See what exactly? A man drowns and you say he must have been murdered because he wasn’t wearing a life jacket. That’s supposed to make sense to me?’ He waved a hand in disgust. ‘Anyway, save it for Stapleton – I’ve assigned Le Saux to him, and you can tell him all about it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No “buts”. The decision’s final.’

  He knew better than to argue; he was off the case. ‘My report’s being typed; I can talk Stapleton through it. In fact, it might help if I could still keep an oar in. After all, I ran Le Saux. I knew him pretty well, and the set-up there in Milwaukee.’ He was trying not to plead.

  ‘Sure, kid, if that’s what you want.’

  He looked at Ferguson curiously. There was pleasure in the SAC’s face now which Nessheim could not decode.

  ‘You see, you’re not going to be in Chicago much longer. Three months maybe, six months max. Orders of the Director himself. He wants all of Purvis’s people out of here. You’re being transferred.’

  6

  October 1937

  Washington D.C.

  HARRY GUTTMAN HAD a hard roll and a hard pencil on his desk, and in his fury was half-inclined to chomp the pencil. He might have, too, had he not just finished eating a lot of crow. What am I supposed t
o do? he wondered, settling for the pencil and holding it in both hands. He could usually control his temper, but he was glad to be alone now.

  The meeting could not have gone worse. Hoover hadn’t said much until the end, letting Tolson do most of the talking. But when he had intervened he had done so decisively.

  Looking down now, Guttman saw he had snapped the pencil in two. He stared for a moment at the pair of wood stubs, then looked out the window at Pennsylvania Avenue, where people were still rushing for the trolley as the rush hour ended – say what you liked about the Depression, federal employees were still in plentiful supply.

  If I just forget about it like they want me to, he told himself, I will always regret it. But if I act on it, and they find out, my goose is cooked.

  Harry Guttman was forty-four years old but felt a hundred. As a boy in New York City he had always wanted to work in law enforcement. He couldn’t have said why – comic books, maybe, which featured good guys and bad guys, or a neighbourhood beat cop named Keane whom he’d admired. Who knew? Even when he’d graduated from CCNY, along with umpteen other striving Jewish boys, then taken a night-school law degree while working all day for a Midtown jeweller, he had still wanted to be some kind of cop. He didn’t like the thought that he was an avenging angel, but he knew that deep down he yearned for the power to keep good people from being harmed, and to punish those harming them.

  He’d joined the Bureau precisely to fulfil these aspirations, though he never expected to rise so high through its ranks – he was an assistant director in charge of an investigative division in the D.C. headquarters of the whole shebang. He even reported to Tolson, who was Hoover’s right-hand man (maybe even more than that, a few snidely liked to suggest). Yet he had never expected to spend more time fighting his corner than fighting crime.

  He ran an absent-minded hand through the few strands of hair remaining on his head and tried to remember when last he’d had a good night’s sleep. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the weight he’d put on in the last few years. As a boy he’d been active, sporty, playing handball with his pals on the Lower East Side, running everywhere, as if walking was a jail sentence meted out to grown-ups. Now his physical activities were restricted to taking the garbage out at his Arlington tract house, and passing up dessert at lunch.

  He wondered how Isabel was right now, and if she’d managed to light the stove burner this time to make supper. It made him nervous – stuck in a wheelchair, how would she get out if she accidentally set fire to something? – but his wife insisted on doing whatever she could around the house. If he’d had more money he’d have help in for more than two hours each day, but then if he had more money he wouldn’t be sitting here, sweating about his unproductive encounter with the boss.

  He thought back to the original break. It had seemed astounding at the time – and still did, whatever the Director thought. He’d had the call on Saturday night at home, from Kevin Reilly, a contact he’d made with the D.C. police – they’d met on a blackmail case that had gone nowhere. Reilly had asked if he could come down to the station in Northwest; there was someone he thought Guttman would want to see.

  He’d had to leave Isabel with the spaghetti half-cooked, and only the radio for company, but he knew Reilly wouldn’t have called unless it was important. He’d driven in, across the bridge and through Georgetown, until he came to the station house, a low cheap pile of brick due for demolition whenever the municipal coffers perked up.

  The desk sergeant nodded him through, and he found Reilly outside the captain’s office. ‘What’s the panic?’ asked Guttman.

  ‘Ever heard of Big Ma Thornton – as in Big Ma Thornton’s Establishment?’

  ‘Sounds like a cat house.’

  ‘Got it in one.’ He paused. ‘The thing is, usually we leave it alone.’ Meaning Big Ma, whoever she might be, paid the police to stay away. Reilly continued, ‘Anyway, there was a raid tonight. No big deal – I mean, we weren’t out to arrest anybody—’ He stopped awkwardly, realising he’d effectively admitted that the cops had gone in to shake down Big Ma. He went on more carefully, ‘There were a dozen or so guys in the place, and we took IDs. Probably half of them gave phoney names, and most were smart enough to have left their wallets at home. But one guy stuck out. He was a Kraut, and a noisy one – he started shouting that he had diplomatic immunity.’

  ‘Maybe he does.’

  Reilly shrugged. ‘He got lippy with O’Doyle, the sergeant, and O’Doyle hauled his ass in here, immunity or not.’

  ‘So you’ve got a Kraut from the embassy caught in a whorehouse. For this you called me into town?’ He hoped Isabel had left the spaghetti alone – he should have made her a sandwich before he left.

  ‘Keep your shirt on, Harry. I’m just trying to help you out.’

  ‘What’s this guy’s name?’

  ‘Bock. Emil Bock.’

  ‘Did he say what he does at the embassy?’

  Reilly shook his head. ‘No. But I figure he’s pretty senior, Harry. He drove to Ma’s in a Lincoln.’

  Guttman whistled appreciatively. Unless he was a chauffeur, Herr Bock had to be pretty high up to own such a fancy set of wheels. But so what? he asked himself, then repeated the question to Reilly, adding, ‘I mean, I can’t believe this guy’s going to tell me his state secrets because you caught him with his pants down. Who knows? His ambassador might even approve – fraternising with the natives and all that.’

  ‘It’s not quite that straightforward, Harry. Let’s get a coffee and I’ll explain.’

  Twenty minutes later Guttman watched as the door to the interview room opened and a man came in, stepping into the garish circle of light thrown off by a naked overhead bulb. Behind him Reilly closed the door and stayed outside.

  Bock was average height but stood ramrod straight, with blond hair combed straight back, pale lips, and the square unmoving jaw of an alabaster statue. He wore an expensive-looking charcoal suit that hugged his shoulders, a white dress shirt that looked handmade, but no tie – possibly his one sartorial concession to the informality of Big Ma’s House. Bock’s composure seemed complete but contrived, for his eyes blazed revealingly at the indignity of his situation.

  ‘Hinsetzen, Herr Bock,’ said Harry casually, pointing to the chair across the interview table from him. Bock’s eyes widened. Harry added in English, ‘This shouldn’t take too long.’

  ‘This shouldn’t take any time at all,’ Bock declared, angrily pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘I am a diplomat with the German Embassy.’ Cherman Embassy, he said, which reminded Guttman of his father, an immigrant who had never mastered his new language.

  ‘The policeman who arrested you seemed to think you were a chauffeur.’ He wanted to prick the man’s bubble of pride fast.

  Bock bristled. ‘I am the Principal Secretary to the Ambassador. And I demand my instant release.’

  ‘I just have a few questions and then you can go.’

  ‘No,’ said Bock, adamant. ‘I will answer nothing. I want my release.’

  Harry scratched the crown of his head with bemusement. ‘I could do that, Herr Bock, and if you really want me to I will. Only I’m not sure what you’d want me to tell your superiors.’

  Bock pursed his lips and spoke through clenched teeth. ‘My superiors are quite beside the point.’

  Guttman sat forward, and put both elbows on the table. ‘Maybe you’re right. We don’t usually press charges for this sort of thing. Maybe release it to the press – you know, to make the humiliation a public one.’ Though even then, thought Guttman, most people could buy their way out of that. Fifty bucks to the desk sergeant and the original booking sheet had a funny way of getting lost.

  ‘I do not believe your newspapers would take an interest in this.’

  ‘Normally, I’d agree with you. I mean, a man has his needs, now doesn’t he? And I’m sure it’s not easy, being a foreigner and all, to meet ladies your own age. It’s only natural – I be
t even His Excellence, or whatever you call your boss, would understand.’ He was sounding like Reilly, he realised, but there was no point matching the German’s starchiness with any of his own.

  And indeed Bock started to relax for a moment. But then he caught himself, as if something in Harry’s tone belied the reassurance he was offering. He said suspiciously, ‘The policeman said you were from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Is that true?’

  Guttman took his shield and flipped it on the desk between them. Bock looked at it briefly, and shook his head. ‘For a federal official, you act in a most unorthodox fashion.’

  You aren’t alone in thinking that, thought Guttman. ‘Let’s stick to the point. There was nothing natural about what you did, now was there? Or to put it another way, would the Ambassador really understand?’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ Bock said quickly. Too quickly. He was tenser now, perched on the edge of his chair.

  ‘Oh, I think you do, Herr Bock. Like I say, there are times when a man needs a woman. And he goes out and finds whatever he can. A tootsy, a tramp, a floozy, a broad – funny how many words there are to describe what a man has to have, almost as many words as there are women. But the funny thing is, I can’t think of an alternative way to describe what you got up to tonight. What’s a different way to explain that you paid six bucks to sodomise a sixteen-year-old coloured boy? For the life of me, I can’t think of one. Maybe your Ambassador could.’

  Guttman stared at him, but Bock wouldn’t meet his gaze. He seemed suddenly deflated, his hauteur gone. In a quiet voice he said, ‘Do you have any cigarettes?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Guttman cheerfully. He reached into his jacket pocket, and pushed a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes and his Ronson lighter across the table. Bock shook out a cigarette, lit it with the Ronson, then sucked the smoke fiercely into his lungs. He didn’t look at Guttman as he said, ‘What is it you want from me?’