By the following Saturday, exactly two weeks from the murder, all of Gus's preparations were complete.
At five p.m. he went to his bedroom closet and took down his old Smith and Wesson Model 10, .38 caliber service revolver. From a fresh box, he loaded six cartridges into the cylinder, placing six additional rounds into a leather ammo case which he then affixed to his belt. He tucked the weapon into his waistband and concealed it under the exposed tails of his blue cotton work shirt.
Gus kissed his wife warmly and told her not to worry. Then he went out to the Edsel and drove off. He had almost an hour and a half. More than enough time.
* * * *
From the rickety Adirondack chair on the plank porch of Dal Thomas's isolated cabin, Gus watched as the big black Buick nosed slowly around the bend and pulled to a stop behind his car. Gus stood up and glanced at his watch.
Six-thirty sharp. Right on time.
He stepped off the porch and waited. The driver of the Buick climbed out and slammed the car door closed. Their eyes met.
"I never imagined it would be you,” the man said to Gus.
Gus walked around the front of the Buick and stood behind the Edsel, six feet from the man. He smiled.
"Well, now, Mr. Mayor,” he said, “life is just full of surprises. Who did you imagine it would be?"
John Henderson smiled back, but there was a tenseness around his eyes. “Well, Gus, I guess maybe Bill Carters or Bobby DeVay. Or the old man, Henry Strauss. Maybe even Ludwig Graber. But of course, it makes more sense it's you. I guess I should have known."
"So now you know,” Gus said.
Henderson nodded. “Yes, I do. I just never figured you for a blackmailer, Gus. I thought you were a more noble sort of man."
Gus laughed. “Why, look who's measuring nobility. My county pension is forty-five hundred dollars a year. I add two, maybe three thousand to that with farmin’ money. You ever earn any farmin’ money, John? It's a hell of a lot more difficult than selling folks real estate or insurance."
"I'm sure it is,” the mayor said coldly.
Gus nodded. “And you know, John, I'd kinda like to have a shiny new Buick like that one after this here Edsel. Maybe even a Caddy. This just seems like the realistic sort of way to do it."
"Did you bring the original photo?” Henderson asked, his eyes hard.
"My letter said I would. You ever know me to lie, John?"
Henderson ignored the remark. “Where'd you get it from?"
"Ellie Strauss's bedroom. Tucked away like a family heirloom."
"Does Henry know you have it?"
Gus shook his head. “Far as I know, he doesn't even know it exists. So there shouldn't be a need for you to kill him, too. If Henry had any idea who you are, he'da told me already. Or Carters. It would kinda make you the prime suspect in Ellie's murder, now wouldn't it?"
Henderson smiled an evil, cold smile. “So tell me, Gus. Who am I?"
Gus shrugged. “Damned if I know. But Ellie knew, didn't she? You spent a lot of time with her the last few months. You handled the sale of the Mullers’ deli and the house the Strausses bought. And you still have that baby face, John. I recognized you the second I laid eyes on that photo. Ellie musta been nagged by it, feeling like she knew you from somewhere, but just couldn't place you. Then I guess she had occasion to take a look at that old picture and—bingo!—she saw it just like I did. My God, she musta damn near died. After all she did to distance herself from her past, from Braunau, she runs smack into you, right here in Central Islin. Talk about a long shot."
Henderson shook his head. “Not so long, Gus. The embassy and immigration steered a lot of us to Long Island. They figured with all the farms and livestock and the slower pace of things we'd acclimate. Hell, I lived over in Selden for years and I ran across so many Germans and Austrians I had to move to Central Islin just to play it safe."
"When'd you first come over, John?” Gus asked.
"Nineteen thirty. I was nineteen. My mother knew Hitler would eventually destroy Germany. She figured he'd get me killed in a war while he was at it. Hitler didn't even become Chancellor until ‘thirty-three, but my mother was a smart woman. She saw what was coming. She never underestimated him."
"Lots of other folks did,” Gus said.
Henderson nodded. “And they lived to regret it.” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit and took out the copy of the picture anonymously mailed to him. Enclosed with the photo were a blackmail demand and instructions to meet at six-thirty Saturday night at Dal's place.
The mayor looked at the photo. “I remember that suit,” he said, referring to Hitler's double-breasted suit. “It was a favorite of his back then.” He looked up and smiled at Gus. “My mother picked it out for him. At a Munich haberdashery. She had very good taste. And, in the early years, she was quite taken by Herr Hitler."
Gus furled his brow. “Tell me, John,” he said softly. “What name were you born under?"
Henderson smiled. “Jurgen Karl Hitler,” he answered. He turned the photo to face Gus. “My father was his brother. Allow me to introduce you to my beloved Uncle Adolf. He was very good with oil paint and dogs. Among other things."
Gus shook his head. “I don't get it, John. It makes no sense. If you came over in nineteen thirty, you're clean. Hell, no one even knew you were an immigrant, let alone a blood Hitler. You're as American as I am. Why, John? Why'd you kill that poor old girl?"
"Because she threatened me. Said she wouldn't live in the same town with a Hitler. Imagine that? There she was posing with him, rooting him on, then; later, when it all goes wrong, she decides to run for cover and climb on some moral high horse. Then she tries to ride roughshod over me. Imagine her gall. Trying to throw me out of my own town. Well, I wasn't running. But I couldn't take any chances, you see. I knew she was very reluctant to let anyone know about her own past, but I couldn't count on that. She herself told me that if her brother, Henry, ever found out who I was, he'd tell the whole world about it. He blamed my uncle for getting his two brothers killed and he would want me to pay for it. Hell, the day after Pearl Harbor I tried to enlist in the Marine Corps. My bad knee and punctured eardrum made me four-eff, but I really did try. Now this immigrant Kraut comes along and wants to throw me out of my own town? No, Gus, that wasn't going to happen."
"So you killed her and framed poor old pitiful Dal."
He nodded. “Had to be done, Gus, surely you can see that. Why, I've got two fine young daughters to think about, one engaged to be married. Could I have them find out they have that madman's blood in their veins? That their father is Adolf Hitler's nephew? I had to kill her. And Dal, well, he was the best choice to take the fall. No family, no friends—just a drunken lout the town will be far better off without."
Gus leaned against the trunk of his Edsel and folded his arms across his chest. He felt the reassuring weight of the Smith and Wesson at his waist.
"So,” he said. “The way I figure it, Friday night before the murder, you spot Dal's beat-up old truck nosed in at the Green Lantern. You drive out here to his place, middle of nowhere, and you search it. Pick up one of his knives. Then you head back to your real-estate office, nose around a bit, find an extra set of keys to Muller's Deli. Then Saturday, before daybreak, you let yourself into the delicatessen and lock the door behind you. You cut that electric cord with Dal's knife. I guess it was kinda tough trying to cut through that wire, and the gloves on your hands smeared some of Dal's prints. But lucky for you, two of ‘em were clear enough for the lab boys to get a match.
"You made sure you hooked some fibers onto that knife blade, just in case we were all too stupid to figure things out.
"And you waited. Maybe hid somewhere. When Ellie came in, you came up from behind and strangled her with that cord. Those gloves you wore were good ones, leather probably. They protected your hands so the wire didn't cut into them like it cut into her throat.
"You cleaned out the register and went home. Then you waited for Carters to call with
the news. You knew he was inexperienced and probably feeling pressured, so you told him to call me. That accomplished two things: one, it made you look very determined to find the killer. And, more importantly, it gave you confidence that between Carters and me, we'd manage to figure it all out and lock up Dal. It was damn near perfect."
"But I didn't fool you, Gus. Where'd I go wrong?"
"Do you remember your little speech, John? You politicians just love to hear yourselves talk. Well, you may have made one speech too many."
"What are you talking about?"
Gus smiled coldly. “In the delicatessen, when we were looking down at poor ol’ Ellie. You said, ‘Imagine that? Come all the way from Braunau, Austria, just to die in Central Islin, U.S.A.’ Remember?"
Henderson's eyes squinted. “As a matter of fact, no, I don't remember. But that's it? That was it?"
Gus shook his head. “No. Not at first. What bothered me was I just couldn't imagine Dal Thomas killing anyone. But later, when everybody was sayin’ how Ellie was from Lambach, the way Hilda Graber insisted, well, it struck me as being odd. Maybe, I figured, there was just some mix-up. Lambach, Braunau, Linz—what's the difference? But then I saw Ellie's immigration papers. And they said she lived her whole life in Braunau. How was it, I wondered, that you were the only person other than Ellie and Henry themselves to know they were from Braunau? And then I saw that baby face of yours in the photo smiling back at me from next to Hilter. That was when I knew for sure.
"I figured you were some escaped Nazi war criminal, killing Ellie to save your neck from a hangman. But no, you just overreacted, John. Do you really think folks would hold a name against you? You didn't commit any war crimes. Hell, you were already here by the time the war broke out. A man can't pick his relatives any more than he can pick his eye color."
Henderson smiled sadly. “Gus, how many veterans do you think would buy insurance from Hitler's nephew? Or real estate? You're underestimating him, Gus. My uncle's name, his bloodline, will be damned throughout history. He reaches out from the grave. Do you know, Gus, he has a half-brother here, right on Long Island. Right now. Living not fifteen miles from here. I'm not the only one, Gus. Believe me. And if folks knew, they'd be hounding us to our deaths. We'd all be Frankenstein's monster and we'd never know any peace."
Gus sighed and shook his head. “Well,” he said, “I'm damn sick of all this. Give me my money and take this picture and get out of my sight. Let's finish our business."
Henderson's face calmed. His expression grew cool. “All right, Gus. The money is in the car. I'll get it for you."
He stepped to the door and opened it, reaching across to the passenger side and the glove compartment. His .45 pistol, loaded and waiting, was inches from his grasp. Gus stepped clear of the door and pulled out the Smith and Wesson. He leveled it at the stretched back of Henderson, approximating where the man's heart should be. If forced to shoot, Gus had decided to end it once and for all with that one shot.
"Whatever it is you're figuring on doing here this evening, Mr. Mayor,” Gus said tightly, “I'd glance up at Dal's front door first."
Henderson froze and then craned his neck. Standing on the broken-down front porch of the Thomas cabin stood Police Chief Bill Carters, a .38 revolver outstretched before him in a two-handed combat grip. The weapon was leveled at Henderson's head.
"Now maybe I'd glance over at that outhouse,” Gus added.
Standing beside the outdoor toilet was Officer Jimmy Duke, a .30-06 Remington hunting rifle in his hands. It, too, was aimed at Henderson's head.
Later, with the mayor rear-cuffed in the back of the Edsel, Officer Duke seated beside him, Carters and Gus took a last look around.
The wooded landscape brimmed with lush beauty: crickets resounding in the distance, an occasional early evening firefly flaring and twinkling in the late cooling air.
"Hell of a thing,” Carters said as he watched a distant hawk soar on a strong updraft.
"Quite a mess,” Gus said.
Carters shook his head. “Don't believe I'll ever understand any of this, Gus, if I live to be a hundred."
Gus watched the hawk against the darkening red and blue sky.
"Well, Bill, I guess it's simple enough. We're all just running from ghosts.” He turned towards the Edsel.
"And from time to time,” he said, “some of us get caught."
Copyright ©2009 by Lou Manfredo
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Black Mask: THE LIFEGUARD METHOD by Kieran Shea
Kieran Shea received help and encouragement in writing this story from Private Eye Writers of America founder Robert J. Randisi. Because of the story's dark tone, we thought it right for our Black Mask department. However, it could as appropriately have appeared in the Department of First Stories, for it is Mr. Shea's first published fiction. The New Jersey-born author currently lives outside of Annapolis, Maryland, with his family. He told us he's at work on a novel featuring this story's hero, Charlie Byrne.
The Trump Taj Mahal, Room 1223, Atlantic City. I knocked and the door was yanked open, a nine-millimeter Glock hovering a foot and a half from my face.
Man, I thought, these kids and their pop allegiances to cliched firepower.The Glock looked pretty used. Probably picked up on a blazed-out lark in somepawn shop and never cleaned or oiled properly. I knew the kid, Marty Adell, couldn't handle it by the way he held it straight-armed, like he'd seen in Grand Theft Auto IV or maybe some direct-to-DVD cop flick. But at eighteen or so inches, accuracy was a given, so I offered a slow grin.
"Dude, you mind putting your finger on the guard instead of the trigger?"
"Huh? Why?"
"Call me nervous."
Marty adjusted.
"Thanks."
As an investigator, I knew that playing bagman for a half-baked, amateur shakedown would have its heavy share of cheesy melodrama, especially since I knew the supposed victim, Andy Grossman. Karma was being, in this case, quite the bitch.
About fourteen years ago I was a summer lifeguard down on the Jersey shore. Avalon to be exact ... back when summers off for me meant chasing sandy bikinis and cheap beer with equal vigor and abandon. That summer, Andy was about six years old and lost his boogie board in a rip current. I was on tower duty that afternoon and saw Andy panic in the slack water about twenty yards off the break. Twenty yards may not seem like much to an adult, but to a frightened six-year-old kid, it's vast. I jumped down from the tower, swam out, and nabbed Andy just before he slipped under.
Afterward, Andy's parents were so gushingly grateful that they kept in touch with me over the years, even dropping a note of congratulations when I finally hobbled through my six-year community college career and started working as an investigator. Mr. Grossman was a hotshot litigator in Philadelphia and more than happy to oblige. Plenty of deposition work and the occasional sleazy dumpster dive. When he called me at the office a few days ago I expected more of the same. What I got, unfortunately, was a staged kidnapping involving his gambling-addicted son. It was a total amateur setup from the git-go and despite his wife's teary doubts, Mr. Grossman knew the play. After some discussion, we agreed it might be high time to teach his wayward son a lesson.
Marty Adell, Andy's University of Pennsylvania classmate and partner in this ill-conceived scam, was a ropey-looking glamour boy, skinnier in person than his MySpace and Facebook JPEGS. Maybe twenty-one, with a dark crop of waxy, slick hair and some grubby three-day stubble backing the “look.” He sweated like he'd been caught in the rain and his outfit was total goombah, straight from David Chase central casting—a shiny black Adidas track suit, two-hundred-dollar sneakers, and lots of gold jewelry, including a Miraculous Medal and that little Italian horn thing that looks like an amputated leg. I choked to suppress a laugh; even wise guys didn't wear that crap anymore. Must've been part of Marty's attempt at Method acting, along with the thuggishly scripted ransom calls made to Andy's parents and the secondhand gun.
Marty pu
ffed up his chest.
"Inside,” he ordered.
I shook my head and Marty's eyes doubled with disbelief.
"Where's Andy?” I asked.
"In here."
"So? Show me."
I braced the door open with my boot and gave Marty a nod to go fetch. Marty sneered and eased back, the gun still trained on my face. A moment later he dragged Andy Grossman from behind a blind corner, hopping into my line of sight. There was a swatch of silver duct tape squared across Andy's mouth and his eyes pleaded at me like a choked puppy. His hands and feet were bound with more duct tape and I noticed he was barefoot. Teetering like a toddler, Andy wore a navy V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt and jeans.
I liked the fact that they made the effort of appearing as if this exchange was for real, what with all the duct tape and desperate acting, but it was obvious that Andy and Marty had watched too much television. A little thoughtful research on their part would have told them that ransom go-betweens never fly solo and kidnap victims are rarely, if ever, at the ransom exchange. Typically, if the victim is at the exchange it's a fair bet that the victim is already dead.
I looked Andy over and noticed a flutter in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. No doubt I was a familiar face, but apparently he couldn't place me. It had been a long time since he puked up a belly full of seawater.
I lifted a duffel bag and nodded at Marty.
"Okay,” I said, “Here's your fifty grand."
Then the elevator down the hall pinged behind me and Marty's face jumped off like a bomb.
"Get in here! Get in here now!"
I stepped inside and the door closed behind me with a solid chuh-chunk.
I have to admit, the Taj suite the kids were holed up in looked pretty swank. If they really wanted to go for bad-guy authenticity they should've selected one of the salt-swollen dives off of Atlantic Avenue and Route 322. Now, those crackhead warrens would've added some realistic hard-core flavor. Chickenhead hookers and Latino trannies no extra charge.
The Taj suite itself was painted a pale money green. Bright off-white accents and fresh-cut flowers. There was a parted set of curtained french doors leading from what appeared to be a sitting area to the bedroom. No doubt the suite had a turbocharged minibar and steam shower too. Say what you want about The Donald's attitude and the infamous hair. The man has taste.
EQMM, August 2009 Page 4