by Liz Freeland
In the afternoon, a man—he looked more like a bum than a journalist, even Das Auge’s caliber of journalist—came by and handed Johann a much-used envelope that went immediately into the mystery drawer. Johann looked over, catching me as I watched him lock it. I glanced away. Our visitor was still standing by the door, and Johann pulled money out of his wallet and handed it over: two ten-dollar bills. Twenty dollars for any of the scribblings that went into Das Auge was at least ten dollars too much.
And why would an article need to be under lock and key?
By the time the man left, I was so curious I was about to levitate out of my chair. I stood, stretching out my tired back muscles. A year in the police force had made me forget how much of a strain it could be to sit hovered over a typewriter all day.
“Would you like me to type that?” I asked Johann.
He startled as if he’d forgotten I was there. Then he followed my gaze to the drawer, his jaw hanging open indecisively. “It’s . . . not an article.”
“Oh, is it a notice or some other type of column? You certainly paid him handsomely for it.”
He remained silent longer than seemed necessary. “To be honest, that old fellow’s just some sad-sack acquaintance of Holger’s. I think he was a professor in the old country. Now he writes wretched poetry, and Holger gives me money to pay him for it. Pays him far too much, as you said.”
“It never appears in Das Auge?”
He shook his head.
“And the man never notices?”
“Why should he care? He gets paid.”
If I hadn’t already known Johann was lying, I certainly did now. During the year I’d worked in publishing, I’d never met an author who didn’t care about seeing their words on the printed page at least as much as they cared about money. And authors cared about money a lot.
Johann spent the next hour shifting in his chair, filling his desk blotter with doodles, and checking his watch. Finally, he stood and headed for the coatrack. “I’m going to have to leave for an hour or so.”
His manner was definitely strained, and he was avoiding my gaze again. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“I, um, just need to talk to a few of our advertisers about money they owe.”
“I’ll bet.” When he drew back, clearly wondering what my comment meant, I added, “If we’re handing bad poets twenty dollars, it’s no wonder we need to squeeze the advertisers to pay up.”
Part of me was glad he was going out. I suspected the errand was related to whatever was in that locked drawer, and that whatever was in there had something to do with either Ruthie’s death or the forgery crimes that the Secret Service was interested in. I didn’t have permission to bow out of the operation, but I itched to crack that lock as soon as Johann was out the door.
As things turned out, that itch would go forever unscratched. Before leaving, Johann doubled back to his desk, opened the drawer, and removed the envelope there, tucking it into a pocket inside his coat. He then relocked the drawer—though I’d seen it was empty—and headed out with an overly jaunty wave.
On impulse, I leapt from my chair, grabbed my coat off the rack, and set off after him. If I couldn’t get my hands on any evidence, I at least wanted to see where Johann took it. That story about advertisers was hogwash.
I kept myself a quarter block behind Johann on the avenue, but then he turned left and headed east, forcing me to fall back more. He zigzagged again at First and continued on, barely seeming to look where he was going. Wherever he was headed, he knew the way quite well. At Seventy-Ninth he walked another long block, crossed Avenue A, and then cut down to a walkway that led toward the water. The land wasn’t exactly park—but it was dotted with scrub and various makeshift buildings that were little more than shacks. Behind us, where Avenues A and B intersected, a small factory belched acrid smoke into the evening air, sending up a dark plume against the winter clouds. I’d never been at this spot next to the East River. It was a whole new world—and a very different world from the one just a block away, where a fine new apartment house, in the mold of those of Sutton Place to the south, was under construction.
A gravel path led to a short pier—not like the colossal piers at the south of Manhattan and up the island’s west side, where great steamships, freighters, and cruisers slipped in and out daily, guided back out to sea by the bulldog-like tugboats. This waterfront was a more ramshackle affair, as were the vessels moored to the pier: a barge, a rowboat, and a top-heavy-looking houseboat.
I stopped dockside, lingering in the shadow of a building and looking out at Blackwell’s Island just across the water. The lights of a few of the island’s institutional buildings were just beginning to stand out in the early twilight. This did not feel like a safe place. The ground was littered with discarded liquor bottles, and a metal barrel that appeared to have been used as a makeshift stove stood a few feet away. Cold wind sliced down the river, causing water to slap against whatever boats were tied nearby, their riggings creating a percussive backdrop for all the other city sounds around us—traffic and gulls and a metallic tattoo coming out of the factory. Somewhere on the water, a ship’s horn lowed.
Johann hurried down the rickety pier toward the houseboat. It was a queer vessel, a big boat hull sitting low in the water, with a squared-off shingled structure on its deck. I could make out a door leading to what must have been the cabin, although it was partially obscured by a clothes wire running from one corner to the bow. Shirts, pants, and a pair of red long johns flapped in the cold wind.
I knew immediately whom he was meeting—the Skipper—but I needed to verify it with my own eyes. Furtively, I moved around to get a better view, unobstructed by long underwear. From a different vantage, I was able to make out the lettering on the side of the ship’s hull: Silver Swan.
That name had slipped my mind for days. Now I gaped in disbelief. This cobbled-together heap was the Silver Swan I’d been hunting for? It looked more like a half-dead goose. In a way, though, that absurdity intrigued me. The houseboat’s unremarkable appearance was hiding something significant, I was sure of that.
My brain was on fire. First there had been Johann’s alarm at Ruthie’s stole. Now the name she’d scrawled on a piece of paper and tucked into the passports was right before me. What was Johann up to?
He called out and the old Skipper appeared, pushing aside a pair of pants that blocked the door to the hold. Johann reached into his coat and produced the envelope he’d taken from his locked drawer. It passed into the older man’s possession, and the two men continued talking. I tried to figure out what this meant—Johann and the Skipper made regular exchanges of something other “contributors” brought into Das Auge. Passports? Even given a black market in passports, it was hard to believe they would have enough value to involve so many people. And how did Ruthie’s death tie in?
I needed to get a note to Operatives Halloran and Luft, and maybe to Captain Smith. I was sure they were right about the criminal activity going on at Das Auge, but now I knew it’d had something to do with Ruthie. She’d known about this place, and she’d been killed. By Johann?
Before either man had the opportunity to turn and see me, I did an about-face and retraced my footsteps. I wanted to get back to Das Auge well ahead of Johann. Perhaps I could even gather my things and clear out for good before he got back. Whatever was going on at Das Auge was not just underhanded, it was deadly. Worse, Johann, I was sure, had begun to suspect me. My work in Yorkville, though incomplete, was done.
I made quick time back to the office, arriving out of breath. When I opened the door, the sight of a man sitting at Johann’s desk caused me to gasp. How had this happened?
The figure turned. It was not Johann—of course it wasn’t. Johann could never have moved that fast. The man at the desk was Holger, and he did not look pleased.
CHAPTER 21
“I came here to speak to you, only to find the door unlocked and the office empty,” Holger said. “Does this happen
often?”
“No. That is, I don’t think so. It’s the first time it’s happened all week.” I swallowed, collecting my wits. “I was following Johann. He left very abruptly. You told me to keep my eye on him.”
“We need to have a little talk, you and I.”
Yes, we did. I wasn’t sure how much Holger suspected his employee was involved in—but surely he didn’t want a murderer on his payroll. I was curious what Holger would say to what I’d witnessed that day.
“I will take you to dinner,” he said. “Somewhere nice.”
Was it dinnertime already? It was dark outside, but the days were so short now, I couldn’t tell how long I’d been gone.
“Not too nice, I hope,” I said. “I’m not exactly dressed for the rotogravure.”
“You are dressed attractively enough,” he said.
A ringing endorsement if ever I’d heard one.
Johann burst through the door, red-faced and sweating from what must have been a very brisk walk. I hadn’t been far ahead of him. When he saw Holger, his eyes grew wide. “I’m glad you’re here, Holger. I need to speak to you.”
“Herr Schmidt,” Holger said sternly, “you left the office open. And Leisl was not here.”
“She wasn’t?” Johann turned to me. “I wonder where she was.”
From his expression, I could tell he’d guessed I followed him. I gathered my things quickly, eager to get away. I only wished there was some way I could contact Operative Halloran and arrange a rendezvous. There was no way to use the telephone in privacy in the office now.
“Try not to leave the offices unmanned again,” Holger warned Johann. “That printing press was expensive.”
“I didn’t think I was leaving the office empty.” He colored at the injustice of being scolded for something he considered, rightly, to have been my fault. “Herr Neumann, I need to speak to you about a very urgent matter.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” Holger said. “Right now I am taking Fräulein Frobisher to dinner.”
“But—”
“I know your concern,” Holger told him sharply. “I will deal with it.”
I picked up the stole and draped it around my shoulders, eager to get out of there. Something in the air between these two, and the way Holger avoided Johann’s pleas, unnerved me.
Holger’s lip curled at my fur stole. It seemed clear he hadn’t seen it before. “What kind of animal was that?”
“Nicht ganz mink,” I said, then glanced over at Johann. “Good night.”
He barely met my eye. “ ’Bye, Leisl.” There was guilt in his jowly face . . . but was it the guilt of a killer?
Saying nothing, Holger took my arm and escorted me out to a waiting car. His driver—the same tall, broad-shouldered man as before—opened the back door for us.
“I need to talk to you about Johann,” I said, once we were settled on the seat.
To my surprise, Holger almost chuckled. “He wants to talk to me about you, too. But that does not matter now.”
If Johann didn’t matter, why had I been planted at Das Auge?
I expected we would drive downtown, but the chauffeur turned the car in the opposite direction and didn’t go very far before stopping in front of an old carriage house. Most of these had been converted to garages, or torn down to create more space for rapacious apartment house builders. This one had a sign swinging over its door that read The Coach House.
Inside, the wide-open space stretched from front door to back, dotted with round, red-clothed tables. The floors had been refinished, and the brick walls painted a light beige that glowed golden in the dim lights that hung down from the pressed-tin ceiling. The few remaining stalls had been transformed into private, bench-lined cubbies. A woodstove in the corner let out enough heat to warm the place, aided, I surmised, by stoves in the unseen kitchen. A long bar took up one side of the room. Here and there paintings of horses were hung in honor of the club’s origins. The air was hazy from cigars and cigarettes. In the far corner, a pianist pounded out “Play a Simple Melody,” the tune I’d loved from Watch Your Step. It was already a hit.
A maître d’ appeared, although with his thick neck and arms he looked more like a bouncer. Even at this relatively early hour there were only a few tables open, but we were shown to a good one. The maître d’ took a long look at me before pulling out my chair. Had I seen him before? I sat and inspected the café’s patrons more closely. They weren’t the smart set by any stretch: businessmen obviously stopping for a bracer before heading home to their wives and children or empty flats; cold-eyed men in dark suits surrounded by similar types and women in too-loud clothing; a few looked like artistic types, who flocked together at a few tables, absorbed in conversation.
Holger requested wine first thing—a Riesling, unsurprisingly—and the man nodded and hurried off to do his bidding.
The maître d’ made me anxious, and that anxiety reminded me of Leonard Cain. Had I seen the man previously at one of Cain’s clubs, or during one of my few other encounters with Cain? For all I knew, this place might be one of his. The man was in jail, but his businesses hadn’t died with his sentencing just a few days shy of a year ago.
“Does this club belong to Leonard Cain?” I asked Holger.
“The criminal?” His eyes narrowed. “How do you know about him?”
“I read about him in the newspapers. He ran gambling dens and other unsavory places.”
“I wouldn’t know. This is merely a restaurant I come to sometimes.” Uninterested in Cain, he studied his menu. “Veal cutlets are the thing to have here. I will order for us both.”
High-handed, but what could I say? “Thank you.” I pushed the menu away from me as if relieved to be unburdened by such a weighty decision. “I think you should know something about Johann.”
“My main concern is that those who work for me are loyal to our cause.”
The waiter buzzed up to our table, opened a bottle, and poured Holger a glass of wine, which was duly approved. The man poured wine in my glass, and Holger ordered the promised veal cutlets, potatoes macaire, and green beans au gratin. I’d eat well, at least.
Holger took a sip of wine, as did I. “You should perhaps know that Johann wrote to me this morning,” he said. “About you. Can you guess what he told me?”
I froze. His face was twisted in a smile. Was this some sadistic way of toying with me?
The one small swallow of wine I’d had burned like acid in my stomach. I’d expected to be the one telling tales on Johann—but apparently I was going under the microscope, and who could say where that would lead. “I know your concerns,” Holger had told Johann at the office. What exactly did he know?
I shouldn’t have come here. I should have made excuses and reported to Operative Halloran to get instructions before speaking with Holger.
“No guesses?” He lit a cigarette, then exhaled extravagantly. “He told me you were a spy.”
I started to reach for my wineglass to quench my parched throat, but thought better of it, in case Holger was able to detect a telltale nervous tremor.
“He wrote me a note this morning to inform me of your duplicity.” Laughter burst out of Holger like canon fire. “The fool thought he was telling me something I didn’t know. ‘I don’t trust her,’ he wrote.” He chuckled, delighted.
Of course. Holger already knew I was a spy. A spy for him. Tension drained out of me.
I purposefully sagged with disappointment rather than show my relief. “I suppose this means you won’t need me anymore.”
“Not at all. Just because I don’t need you at Das Auge doesn’t mean you can’t be useful to me in other ways. Unless you’ve decided you no longer want to work for my organization?”
“Is it an organization?” I asked, perking up at the chance to mine a little more information from him. “I thought it was just you, and your interests in”—I lowered my voice, although I doubted anyone could have heard me over the surrounding conversation, laughter, and the pian
ist, who was barreling out the “Merry Widow Waltz” as if it were a ragtime tune—“Germany.”
“There are many of us working in various ways to help our cause. A girl like you could be useful. Although . . .” He eyed me critically.
“What?”
“Perhaps we need to teach you to be a better liar—so the next Johann is fooled for a little longer.” I smiled and he half smiled back. “For now, let’s have our dinner. Afterward, we can discuss your future. Would you like a cigarette?”
He offered me one, which I dutifully took. I tried to relax a little. Maybe my work here wasn’t done, after all. Holger had plans for me . . . although whether he would still have plans when Johann was turned over to the Secret Service was something I doubted.
Holger struck a match and I leaned in to light the cigarette. I peered over the flame, down at Holger’s coat sleeve. There was a button missing. The other button had a tiny eagle on it. Polished brass. Exactly like the button I’d retrieved from Ruthie’s.
I inhaled, then coughed.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
Everything was wrong. Alarms were going off in my skull. Holger had been at Ruthie’s and lost that button . . . near the tub. How? In Ruthie’s final struggle? I’d assumed Johann reacted so sharply to Ruthie’s stole because he’d felt guilty about her death. But I was now just as fearful that the culpable one was Holger. The button placed him, not Johann, at the murder site.
Johann had even tried to warn me—he’d liked me that much, at least until he’d realized I was spying on them. “I don’t like the way he deals with people,” he’d told me.
In all likelihood, he had witnessed or at least knew of the way Holger had “dealt with” Ruthie.
And now, if I gave myself away, Holger might deal with me.
I reached for my wineglass, commanding myself to guard my expression. Unfortunately, at that moment my gaze latched in horror on a woman following the maître d’ to a table. It was the dress that caught my eye first: a deep rosy-pink wool dress with a black lace overlay on the bodice. It was Callie’s dress, but Callie wasn’t wearing it. Anna Muldoon was. Worse, in the same moment I saw her over Holger’s shoulder, she spotted me. Her eyes bulged, and she stopped in her tracks.