The German Agent

by J Sydney Jones

  The descending elevator finally arrived, and its door opened slowly, revealing the occupants inside, one of whom was Edward Fitzgerald.

  Fitzgerald brushed past the bellhop, who looked rather shocked, with mouth agape. Fitzgerald was to meet Catherine for dinner at Rausher’s, and he was late already.

  Poor old Adrian, Fitzgerald thought as he moved on through the main hall. He would insist on further consultations about his telegram at this late date. Something was bothering Fitzgerald, however, apart from the lateness of his departure from the hotel.

  After all, Catherine will be all right at Rausher’s for a few moments: the Ashbys will be there as well, eager to discuss the Art League raffle next month, the ostensible reason for the dinner. No, it’s not that.

  He looked back at the elevators: the bellhop was only now entering, along with several other passengers. Strange, Fitzgerald thought. Fellow must be forty if he is a day. You’d think the Willard could afford a bit of a younger sort to lug suitcases about.

  He was out the front doors of the hotel and the chill of the evening hit him. He pulled the lapels of the camel hair coat more tightly around his tuxedo. People hurried by to catch taxis or streetcars; no one loitered about the cold streets, save for a couple of plainclothesmen Fitzgerald recognized and nodded to.

  As he looked about for a taxi, he felt a tapping at his arm. ‘Nice to see you here, sir.’

  He looked to his left and there was Agent Niel, hatless, his mouth working on a wad of gum.

  ‘Hello,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘I didn’t realize you people were involved in this watch.’

  Niel grinned impishly. ‘Giving an extra hand. It never hurts.’

  ‘No. I’m sure it doesn’t. And I’m sure Chief Inspector Lewis would appreciate your help, if he knew of it.’

  At which Niel had the good grace to laugh. ‘The inspector’s a bit rough with his tongue, if you know what I mean. He’s a good policeman, just a little territorial. He doesn’t have to be. There are more than enough criminals to go around … And how is Sir Appleby?’

  ‘Sir Adrian is fine, Mr Niel. Worried, but in good health.’

  ‘The president will be back by Monday, I understand. This isn’t such a bad spot to spend a few days.’

  ‘How did you know about that?’

  Niel tapped his nose. ‘Not much I don’t know about in this town.’

  Fitzgerald wanted to be away, but still there were no taxis to be seen.

  ‘Like the police, aren’t they?’ Niel said, following Fitzgerald’s searching eyes.

  ‘What’s that?’ Fitzgerald said.

  ‘Taxis. Always there when you don’t need them; never there when you do.’

  He laughed at his little joke; Fitzgerald smiled wanly at him. ‘To be sure.’

  ‘I just thought it might be a good idea if I took up watch here, as well. Training, you see. The Bureau believes in training, not like the Metropolitan Police where they hire you on if you’re over six foot and like sports. I know what to look for, know the ruses a fellow like ours might attempt.’

  Fitzgerald debated walking to Rausher’s, but that would take a good half hour.

  ‘These fellows,’ Niel nodded toward the two plainclothesmen as examples of all the regular police. ‘I bet they’re still looking for a bearded man in a heavy coat. But that’s not our man, is it? By now he’s shaven the beard, if it were actually real in the first place, and gotten rid of the blue coat. He’ll be dressed in workingman’s clothes, most likely. Maybe even a stolen uniform. Who knows? But it takes training to figure out those sort of tricks.’

  Suddenly Fitzgerald’s attention was diverted from his search for a taxi. ‘What did you say just then?’

  ‘Training,’ Niel said, looking at Fitzgerald strangely, popping the gum as he did so.

  ‘No. About the assassin.’

  ‘He’ll be clean-shaven by now. And in some disguise, most likely. Somebody you’d never look twice at.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Fitzgerald suddenly realized what had been bothering him since leaving the hotel. The bellhop. The one waiting for the elevator. The way he looked; the surprise and almost fright in his eyes as I walked out of the elevator. And then turning to watch me even as he entered the elevator.

  ‘He had a limp,’ Fitzgerald said out loud.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The bellhop I passed in the lobby. I think it was him. The right size, the right frame. Clean-shaven and too old for a junior bellhop.’

  But Niel was no longer listening. He was running to the entrance.

  NINE

  It didn’t work. Hell, he thought. He pulled the lever again inside the broken glass. Nothing.

  Some fool neglected to wire the fire alarms properly, Max thought. Or maybe they’re simply cosmetic. Maybe they’re meant to give the residents a good night’s sleep, but don’t work at all.

  Max had no time to try and figure it out, however. The bellhop in the basement cannot be expected to keep quiet all night. As soon as he’s discovered, the game is up.

  Max was on the eleventh floor; he looked quickly up and down the hall. He saw what he was looking for midway down the hall, to the left. A tray with a champagne bucket on it, and an obviously empty bottle of champagne in it, sat on the floor outside a room, waiting to be picked up by the maid service. Max moved quickly down the hall, retrieved the tray and folded a white serviette from the tray over the bottle to hide the fact that it had been opened. He pulled out the gun from his shoulder holster now, making sure that no one was in the hall to see, and hid it under the serviette as well. The ice was still somewhat fresh in the bucket.

  He took the service stairs up to the twelfth floor. Arriving there, Max found a guard was on duty just outside the door to the stairs, his arms folded and all but asleep as he stood, resting against the wall. He gave a jump when Max came out of the door to the stairs, and reached into his coat for a gun.

  Max smiled at him, showing him the tray, and the man relaxed, felt through the napkin for the chill of the ice bucket, and then let Max pass.

  ‘I could do with a drop of that myself,’ the policeman said as Max went to the door of 1220.

  Max smiled again at him over his shoulder, saying nothing; not wanting to risk having his accent heard. At the door he squared his shoulder, balancing the tray in his left hand. He knocked with two sharp raps, then put his right hand under the serviette, gripping the gun. He heard steps coming toward the door.

  Fitzgerald watched the arrow going round the semicircle of floor levels inside the elevator. It seemed like they would never get there. Eight, nine, ten.

  Niel pulled out his gun, double-checking the chambers to make sure they were full of ammunition. Dressed in evening clothes, Fitzgerald had not bothered to take his gun along.

  Eleven.

  Come on. Come on, he thought. Maybe I was wrong. I hope so. Maybe this is all a farce.

  Twelve.

  The doors hesitated for a moment; Niel grabbed them and began pulling them apart, and finally they released.

  Maybe I’m simply being paranoid, Fitzgerald was thinking. Then he saw the bellhop down the hall at Appleby’s room.

  ‘Stop him!’ he shouted, running toward the man.

  The bellhop turned at the shout, saw Fitzgerald running toward him, and the door to Appleby’s suite opened at that very moment. The bellhop had drawn a gun from under a napkin, Fitzgerald now saw, but he continued running for the man, heedless of the danger to himself.

  Chief Inspector Lewis stood in the doorway, looking from the bellhop to Fitzgerald racing down the hall, confused for one fraction of a moment.

  In back of Fitzgerald, Niel had taken up a shooting position, the pistol held in a triangle from his body.

  ‘Get down, Fitzgerald,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve got him in my sights.’

  The guard by the service stairs had finally reacted and was drawing his gun. Suddenly the bellhop dropped the tray and put his gun to Lewis’s head, pulling the burly policeman f
rom the doorway.

  ‘One move from any of you and I shoot him,’ he said.

  He put Lewis in front of him, his own back to the wall now. Fitzgerald stopped dead in his tracks. He had no doubt the man meant business.

  ‘He’s no good to you dead,’ Fitzgerald said, looking the assassin straight in the eye. ‘Let him go. There’s no way out for you.’

  The assassin jabbed the barrel into Lewis’s temple. ‘You don’t want to die, do you?’ he said into Lewis’s ear.

  Fitzgerald could hear the accent and his entire body began trembling, but he would not show his fear.

  ‘Tell them you don’t want to die,’ he said with a snarl.

  ‘I think he’ll kill me if you boys make a move,’ Lewis finally said.

  The assassin began inching along the wall with Lewis still in front of him. ‘You,’ he hissed at the guard by the door to the service stairs. ‘Get over here with the others. Away from the door.’

  The policeman stood his ground for a moment and the assassin cocked the pistol.

  ‘Do as he says,’ Lewis said, sweat breaking out on his forehead now.

  Fitzgerald was closest to the man; he was thinking desperately of how he could get to him without risking Lewis’s life.

  ‘No heroics,’ the assassin said, as if reading Fitzgerald’s mind. ‘He will live if you all act sensibly. Anybody follows me down the stairs, and this one will be the first to die.’

  He had been inching along the wall all the time he spoke and now was at the door to the service stairs.

  At least we kept him from Adrian, Fitzgerald was telling himself. This time.

  The assassin fixed Fitzgerald with a steely gaze for a moment, one hand in back of him to open the door.

  ‘I could have killed you now,’ the man said to Fitzgerald. ‘Remember that. I allow you to live for the time being.’

  With that, he pulled Lewis through the door with him, slammed it shut and was gone.

  They all stood transfixed for a moment. Niel by the elevator was the first to react.

  ‘Get on the phone to the front desk,’ he commanded as he raced toward the door to the stairs. ‘Tell them to bar the front exit. We’ve got the bastard.’

  He reached the door and the policeman on duty grabbed his arm.

  ‘He said he’d shoot the chief if you follow.’

  Niel put his gun to the man’s forehead. ‘And I’ll shoot you right now if you don’t do as I say. Get on the phone, tell them to stop him at the front doors. Move, man!’

  The policeman did as he was told and Fitzgerald followed Niel as he made to open the door. It was blocked by something, and they both put their shoulders to it and opened it slowly.

  Chief Inspector Lewis lay unconscious, blocking the door. Niel jumped over him, on the chase, but Fitzgerald paused momentarily to make sure Lewis was still alive. There was a nasty bruise on his head where the German had obviously struck him with his pistol, but his breathing and pulse were regular. Fitzgerald then searched in Lewis’s coat for his police revolver and took it with him as he raced down the stairs, following the sound of clattering feet on the stairs beneath him.

  Max left the service stairs at the ninth floor, knowing that there would be a greeting party waiting for him at the bottom. He closed the door to the stairs securely in back of him.

  They won’t find which floor I’ve gone out onto for a time, he thought. I’ll have enough of a lead by then to lose them. Let’s just hope that my memory of the outside of the building is accurate; let’s just hope that the fire escape is on this end of the building and that it begins on the ninth floor.

  The rooms he was looking for were on the west side of the building. Any would do, he knew. He picked 913 and rapped on the door, looking over his shoulder all the while at the door to the stairs. They could be coming at any moment, he knew. Answer the door, damn you. Whoever you are.

  No sounds came from inside, so he quickly went to the next door, 915, and knocked.

  A sleepy voice sounded from inside. ‘Who is it?’ A woman.

  ‘Service, madam. A telegram for you. They say it’s an emergency.’ Come on. Hurry, will you.

  ‘Oh,’ came the startled and worried voice from inside. ‘Just a moment.’

  He thought he heard footsteps on the stairs. Finally the door opened in front of him, and a woman in a white linen robe stood in the doorway, her hair piled on top of her head in a bun.

  ‘Is it from Howard?’ Anxiety played on her lined middle-aged face.

  Max immediately pushed her inside, putting his hand to her mouth, letting her see the gun in his hand.

  ‘Say nothing, and I won’t harm you.’

  He heard a door open, then slam shut in the corridor; voices called to one another: ‘Did you see which way he went?’

  ‘Not a sign.’

  ‘I’m sure he came out on this floor.’

  The voices died away as the steps went to the other end of the floor.

  The lady was trembling against him; his hand over her mouth was wet from tears. He realized how terrified she was, wanted to solace her, and took his hand from her mouth for a moment.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she whimpered.

  ‘I won’t. I promise,’ he said. ‘You must only remain quiet.’

  ‘What do you want with me? Why have you come in here with a gun?’

  She was working herself into hysterics, but before he could either soothe her or cover her mouth again, she screamed as loudly as she could, a cry that would wake the entire floor.

  Max dashed to the window, flung it open, and started crawling out onto the fire escape leading from it, his left hand on the sill for balance. A sudden searing pain shot through this hand and up his arm: the woman had stabbed him to the windowsill with a letter opener and then ran to her door screaming for help.

  Max pulled the blade out of the back of his hand. Blood flowed freely from the wound and it began throbbing immediately. He had no time to worry about that at the moment, but took off down the fire escape, moving as fast as his game leg would allow.

  He heard voices from above him, and then felt the thud of weight applied to the metal ladder and knew that they were just behind him. He looked up once as he neared the fifth floor and saw two forms in the darkness above him, a couple of floors away.

  Keep your body inside the metal framework of the fire escape, he ordered himself. Don’t give them a clear shot at you.

  His lungs felt as if they were bursting and the wound to his hand was still bleeding, sapping his strength. It sounded as if the heavy pounding of steps above was gaining on him; he could not be sure.

  Ridiculous, he thought. Here I go again: the assassin being pursued, and I have not yet even seen Appleby after two attempts on his life.

  How could this attempt have gone wrong? But he knew. It was that damn Fitzgerald spotting me at the elevators. Yet how did he know it was me? My beard is gone and I’m in disguise. I should have killed Fitzgerald back there in the hallway. I had the opportunity. But I couldn’t; not in cold blood and him unarmed. I should kill him now, though. If he is one of those chasing me, I should lay a trap and finish him.

  He felt tired of running like some coward or failed villain, but he knew that he could not waste time on personal vendettas: if he were going to escape, he had to keep moving; stay one step ahead of the pursuers; give them no chance to cordon off the entire block.

  He got lucky at the third floor, finding an open window and diving into it, and then discovering that the room was unoccupied.

  He made for the door automatically, then thought a moment. He glanced at the window, its curtain fluttering in the breeze. I should at least close the window; put them off my trail.

  Then he had a better plan. He threw the door to the room open, then went to the wardrobe and got into it, closing its door firmly in back of him. A strong smell of mothballs hit his nostrils, making him nauseous. Soon came the sounds of his pursuers on the fire escape.

  ‘An
open window,’ a voice called out. ‘He’s gone inside again.’

  Max could hear the men climb through the window and jump onto the floor. They were only feet away from him now. He gripped his gun tightly in his right hand and tried to still his breath to a shallow intake.

  ‘Quickly,’ the same voice said. ‘Out in the hall! He’ll be making for the stairs again.’

  Max waited tensely as he heard one of them move off into the hall, but he thought that the second was still there. A creak of a floorboard sounded near the wardrobe where he was hiding.

  He suspects I’m in here, Max thought. He’s going to open the door now. Bathed in sweat, he could hear his heart pounding so loudly in his chest that he was sure the man in the room could hear it, as well.

  ‘Come on, will you,’ a voice cried out from the hall. ‘They’re after him on the service stairs.’

  The man next to the wardrobe now raced out of the room and Max let out a long sigh, closing his eyes reverently in thanks as he did so. He waited a thirty count before opening the wardrobe door and climbing out into the room. There was no sound of his pursuers in the corridor. He got back out onto the fire escape and resumed his downward journey, checking over the side to see no one was waiting for him below.

  Only now did he examine his hand, as he continued to take the metal stairs as quickly as possible. It was covered in blood; the brown pants of the bellhop uniform were stained down the side. He quickly thrust the injured hand into the jacket pocket to hide the blood. His whole arm throbbed painfully; he felt light-headed, out of breath.

  At the bottom of the fire escape he tucked his gun into his waist to avoid drawing attention to himself, jumped down the few feet to the alley and then made his way cautiously out to the street.

  Obviously the police had had no time to cordon off the entire hotel, Max discovered once he stuck his head around the corner at the mouth of the alley. There was only the lone policeman at the corner of F and 14th Street as before, and he did not seem particularly agitated.