Assignment — Stella Marni

by Edward S. Aarons

  "Yes. Grozni." Markey' nodded. "We've got a line on him, but he can't be moved and I don't blame a man for that when he loves his family. And they're still in Gdynia." Markey looked up under shaggy brows. "Can you do anything about that?"

  "I'm going to try," Durell said. "Grozni might be more helpful if he knew his people were safe. I think he's already helped by doing small things. You had no trouble tracing things to the Boroslav— you said you've searched it twice. Even an amateur like Frank Greenwald, and another like Damion, got a lead to the Boroslav. Maybe we can thank Grozni for it. Anyway, their trap for me backfired. I got out of there with the old man."

  Markey looked tired. His normally pink face was pale and drawn, and his eyes were muddy from lack of sleep. Durell knew him to be competent and thorough, one of the finest men working out of the Attorney General's office. Markey shook his round head and stared down at the dottle in his pipe and looked with sudden shrewdness at Durell.

  "Where is Stella Marni, Sam? What did you do with her?"

  "She's safe enough."

  "We want to talk to her again."

  "Later. When I've let her know about her father. I have a hunch shell tell quite a different story now to Senator Hubert and his committee."

  "Hope so. I'd still like to talk to her myself."

  "I'll bring her in," Durell said.

  "Suppose the old man dies?"

  Durell shrugged and drew a deep breath. "That makes two of them. Art and Marni. Art came out of the operating room just about breathing, I understand. They picked pieces of bone out of his head for two hours. And now we have the old man. A coronary, nobody can say how bad yet. But bad enough. Nip and tuck for both of them."

  "You're lucky to be on your feet, yourself," Markey pointed out. "I ought to feel damned annoyed with you, Sam. You could have called me into it this morning. We could have put a net over that ship that nothing could have slipped through."

  "Then you wouldn't have found Marni," Durell said. "I told you, it was me they were after. They never thought I'd get off that ship alive."

  "Then what else do you know, Sam? It must be something they think is damned dangerous to them."

  "I wish I knew what it was. Then we'd be able to wind this up."

  "You must have a piece of something."

  "If I do, I don't recognize it." Durell said.

  Markey spoke flatly. "Then it's the girl. Stella Marni. You've got her. They want her. They'll be wild now, Sam. They can't afford to let her go and do a switch on the testimony she's been giving the committee. If she tells the true story now about how she's been forced to say what she's been saying just because of threats to her father, all the propaganda hay they've been making will go up in smoke. It will be one of their worst boomerangs; the ones who planned it from the start will see their heads roll. So the girl is the key. And I don't trust her with you, Sam. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. You're too apt to go off into the wild blue yonder. I want to know where she is."

  "I'll bring her in," Durell said again.

  "She needs contact surveillance every minute of every day until this thing is cracked and smashed and stamped out. They may try to kill her. In fact, unless they kill her, they'll have to snatch her in place of her father. She's in the worst kind of danger at this minute, and you know it. Sam."

  "She's safe for now," Durell said. "Trust me, Tom. We can get along, you know that."

  "You didn't do too well with Blossom," Markey said quietly. "And I'm not Harry Blossom. I'm not in a twitch over this woman."

  Durell looked sharply at the FBI agent's face, but Markey's round features, the face of a family man except for the cold and calculating eyes, simply looked thoughtful. "What did Blossom tell you about me last night?"

  "Nothing," Markey said. "But he's got some bumps and bruises he won't discuss, either. And a wild hate that's been driving him since dawn."

  "He didn't put in another report on me for anything?"

  Markey lifted deceptively mild, shaggy brows. "Should he have?"

  "Maybe not. I can't figure him." Durell felt restless. There was no point in hanging around this hospital where he had brought Albert Marni. Tom could take that end of it from here. And nobody was permitted to see or question Art Greenwald, even if Art had been in any sort of condition to answer questions, which he wasn't And assuming, again, that Art could shed any light whatever on his brother's death last night.

  He walked with Markey toward the hospital entrance. On the slick, rain-wet granite steps, Markey paused to fill and light his stubby pipe. Durell said: "Who's covering the murder investigation, Tom? Are you working with Homicide East, or what?"

  "A Lieutenant Durkin is on it from the precinct, and a good dozen men, as you suggest, from the Manhattan East Squad. Frank Greenwald died from two blows on the back of the head, both identical wounds. Same as Art got, but he only took one. Frank was killed instantly, without ever knowing what hit him."

  "Heavy blows? The kind that would take a strong man to deliver?"

  "Hard to say. They found a length of pipe in that studio, bloody, bits of hair and bone on it, according to lab analysis, which doesn't leave any doubt about its being the murder weapon."

  "Check for prints?" Durell asked.

  "Only Stella Marni's," Markey said in a fiat voice. His glance flicked up to Durell's expressionless face for a moment. "So you see what I mean."

  "I don't think she killed them."

  "Maybe."

  "Two strong, healthy men?"

  "It could have been done by a woman. By surprise. All at once, and quickly."

  "I don't believe it." Durell said.

  "I know you don't. Maybe you don't want to believe it, like Harry. That's why I want the girl out of your hands, Sam. I don't want you strolling down the same path Blossom has taken."

  Durell was angry. "Don't be a damned fool, Tom."

  "I told you before. Blossom was one of our best men. I'd have staked everything on him, up until a month ago. Now he's got Stella Marni in him, like a disease, and he's sick with it, crazy with it. But just because a man is sick you don't forget all the great things he's done in the past and turn your back on him. I've been talking to Washington. I'm getting authority to take over the case — once I get my hands on the files Harry kept to himself. But we don't throw a man like Blossom to the wolves without giving him every chance. I'm hoping he'll snap out of this thing he's got with Stella Marni, be like he used to be. A top man, Sam." Markov's voice had lifted, then grew calm again. "Well, all right. You've got the girl now, haven't you? And you haven't turned her over to me or to Homicide."

  '"Have you checked this Krame who owns the studio?"

  "Done what we can. He's in Miami Beach."

  "Sure of that?"

  "Registered at the Carillon."

  "You spoke to him?"

  "No, he was out for the evening. The Miami Beach cops were asked to hold him for questioning, but we haven't got a report back yet We ran him through the BCI here, but there's no criminal record on him. Got his description from other tenants in the building, poked into his business — he runs a kind of haphazard photographic studio, does some free-lance portrait work, artistic stuff, and also a good deal of commercial photography in advertising layouts for some of the smaller Madison Avenue outfits. First name's John. Single, aged thirty-four, no known associates with Communist or criminal elements. But there's a connection with Stella, all right. When she first came here from Hungary, she worked as a model and Krame used her in his studio for some advertising work. And of course Frank Greenwald met her when he saw her coming and going in the building, right past his office door on the way up to that studio in the tower." Markey blew angry air through his nostrils. "It ties up, but not tight enough. Krame visited the New American Society — he took Stella to dinner there, or was her guest, we're not sure which. We're not sure of too much in any direction, because Blossom played the whole case so close to his vest."

  "Well, Isotti will find out," Du
rell said.

  Markey considered the dreary, rain-swept street with blank, tired eyes as they stood on the hospital steps. He relit his pipe with care. "Level with me, Cajun. Did General McFee assign you to this deal after that conference?"

  "You know better than to ask me that."

  "If he did, I'll buy whatever you're trying to sell me, Sam. But I want that girl. You don't have to worry about Blossom any more, as far as she's concerned. I told you, Harry is off the case, he's going to be transferred. And it's my baby now. I told Washington how Harry is about this, and they're going to give him a change of scene. The boss found it hard to believe, the way Blossom's changed all of a sudden. But that's over the dam now. I want Stella Marni, understand? I want to know where she is and who she's with every minute of every day from now until we file the case. I don't want to find her dead, Sam. I want her to make her speech to Senator Hubert when she knows her father is safe; I want her to blast this thing wide open. If she'll do it."

  "Do you doubt that she will?" Durell asked.

  "You're overprotective toward her. Nothing is in the bag until the string is drawn tight. Hell, Sam, you know that"

  Durell looked at his watch. "I'll bring her to you at four o'clock."

  "I'll go with you to get her."

  "No. She's afraid of you, Tom — not you, personally, but what you stand for, because of the way Blossom treated her and the way she was mishandled in your office. Not your fault, but there it is. She's scared and suspicious and she knows what might happen to her a year from now, or five years from now, if she changes her song. She recognizes it's a big risk, because the people we're up against have long memories. But she trusts me, I think. I can swing her around to help us. That's why I want to be alone with her and bring her in myself. You'll have her by four o'clock."

  "Your word on that?"

  "My word," Durell said.

  Markey shoved his pipe into his pocket, kept his hand on it "The roof blows off if you miss, Sam. But go ahead." He drew a deep breath. "And I'm a God-damn fool."

  Fifteen minutes later, Durell retrieved his clothes from the tailor on Greenwich Avenue, his shoes from the cobbler, and changed in the subway rest room. On the street again, he found a telephone booth in a smoky bar and phoned Washington.

  It took five minutes to be connected with Clem Anderson, in K Section of the CIA. Anderson was in charge of Middle European Operations, a small mild man in whose mind rested all the controlling strands of a web of agents at work in the satellite countries. Ordinarily, security would have prohibited Durell's contact in this manner; but he put the call on a high-priority basis and swung a little of his weight as sub chief of K Section.

  "Clem? Durell here. In New York. It's a public phone, so be careful. I need some help and some action fast, and you can give it to me. There's a man here, a ship captain named Grozni, Polish, from Gdynia. I've got to pry him loose, but his family has him anchored. Understand?"

  "Sure, Sam. Gdynia, you said?"

  "Wife and three daughters. Are the railroads running?" Durell was referring to the underground system of helping refugees who wanted to flee Communist rule to the West. "This takes top priority. There will be some risk," he said, "because it's a rush job."

  Anderson said carefully: "It will take some time to set it up. You don't know how the family feels?"

  "They'll gladly go, from what I can guess. I need Grozni with a free mind, Clem. As soon as possible."

  "In a week."

  "No. Forty-eight hours, tops."

  Anderson whistled. "Sam, be reasonable! Our man in Gdynia is overloaded now."

  "Can you make contact tonight?"

  "By tomorrow morning. He'll have to dig. That all you got on the family?"

  "Wife, three daughters. Four in all. It has to go fast. I have to know they're safe fast."

  Anderson was silent for a moment. "It's a tall order, Sam. We don't like to rush these things. It has to go through our West Berlin contact. Code radio. And even then, contact is sometimes uncertain."

  "Do what you can," Durell said. "Top priority."

  "Sure, Sam. You'll call back?"

  "Yes."

  Durell hung up, opened the phone-booth door, lit a cigarette. The taproom looked normal. He took a cab from there to the lot where he had parked his rented car.

  And he was followed again.

  This time he definitely spotted the shadow. A hulking giant of a man in a short woolen jacket that was much too tight for his massive shoulders, a wide-brimmed dark hat pulled low over an anthropoid face, and heavy workingman's shoes. Durell spotted him on Eighth Street going east, again in the subway, again at the parking lot. This man was not an ordinary shadow. A tail is usually chosen for anonymity of appearance and movement; but this man moved blatantly, his pale eyes resting boldly on Durell as if weighing and measuring him.

  Durell did nothing about it, not for ten minutes. From the subway station he walked west, stopped for a pack of cigarettes in a corner cigar store, went into a bar for a beer, which he left practically untouched, stopped at a Nedick's for a cup of hot coffee, and then, abruptly and without warning, took evasive action that erased the giant shadower from his trail in a matter of minutes. Then he turned back to the parking lot where he had left his rented Chevy.

  He turned in his ticket at the booth, walked back along the rows of cars toward his own. The rain came down harder, with little spits of snow mingling with the steady wash that filled the gutters and made deep puddles on the asphalt His lined topcoat was in the car. He looked back once, but the big man who had been following him was definitely gone, and then he opened the front door and started to reach in for his coat.

  Harry Blossom sat there, waiting for him.

  The blond FBI agent with the face like a hatchet blade said: "Get in, Sam. No fuss or feathers. I've been waiting here over an hour."

  Durell looked at him and then slid carefully behind the wheel. "What is it now?"

  "Just a talk," Blossom said. "Want to steer you straight. And first, let me say there's no hard feelings for last night."

  "You're singing a different tune all at once."

  "Sure. I feel different. Maybe I... well, it's like getting over a fever. You can see things clearly again, all of a sudden. Don't get sore again, Sam. I've got a gun on you. I don't want to have to use it, because I want you to listen to me instead of arguing with me."

  Blossom was subtly changed. The angry, flickering light was gone from his pale eyes. There was a strip of court plaster on his left temple, a bruise at the corner of his mouth, and more tape across the bridge of his nose. But he was freshly shaved, with a clean white shirt and a dark blue necktie and a look of calm about him. His thin, harsh voice was quieter and more confident, yet there was an undercurrent of urgency in his words.

  "What I want," Blossom said carefully, "is just to talk some sense into you now, Sam. After all, we're both on the same team. I know you from way back, I know what you can do and what you can't do. I know all about you, Cajun. And Stella Marni is going to dig your grave for you unless you listen to me."

  "You're not on the case any more," Durell said.

  "True enough. I tried to get an ax into your neck because I was crazy. Somebody should have put me in an institution. And the ax hit me instead. I'm due at the Los Angeles district office tomorrow night. They're putting the whole country between us. But I've still got a little free time here. Tom Markey took over and told me to get drunk or get a girl or see a movie or just get on the first plane, anyway. I didn't promise I'd do any of those things. What I'm doing is trying to make up for the mistakes I've made. I'm trying to set you straight. Stella Marni is going to kill you."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The beautiful babe. Stunning Stella. The gal with the gorgeous figure and a heart straight out of a frozen hell. The devil's mistress, Cajun. You think you've got her where you want her, but the real situation is the other way around. She's got you. Not exactly where she wants you yet.
That's in your grave. But she's pushing you there."

  Durell felt angry. 'Talk sense or get out, Harry. I'm busy."

  "I know. Are you going back to her now?"

  "I'm turning her over to Tom Markey."

  "Does she know that yet?"

  "She won't object. Her father is safe now," Durell said. He tried to fathom what lay behind the faint glittering of Blossom's eyes, but something was going on in the thin man's mind that defied definition. "You're making some pretty strong accusations against the girl, Harry."

  "I'm sorry if it bothers you, Sam. I think I know more about that she-devil than any other man this side of the Atlantic. I ought to. I spent enough time on the subject. Day and night, awake and asleep. I tried to give her every break I could think of. I bent over backward and I refused to believe anything I found out that counted against her. I dreamed about her. She was in my blood as no one else has ever been before. And then last night, after you slugged me and took her out of my hands, I walked on the beach and thought it all out. A man can't work at his job for fifteen years and give his sweat and brains and guts to it and then just kick it in the teeth. Not even for Stella Marni. I wanted to, Sam. I was ready to. I'd have gone over the hill, back to Hungary with her. On her terms. She'd have liked that. Does that surprise you?"

  "Maybe not," Durell said.

  "Sure. You've had a taste of her. Like honey, but there's arsenic under that sweetness. I vomited it all up last night on the beach. You think I'm crazy, I guess. Maybe I was. But I'm not crazy now."

  "Get to the point," Durell said.

  "All right. Look, I know what happened to me. I've been a lonely man, never married, never had a woman I could love. I've always lived alone in that damned house out on the shore. And the first time I saw Stella, I knew something special had happened." Blossom's thin voice grew softer for a moment. "When she looked at me, she didn't have to say anything, actually. I knew what was there. It was in her eyes, like a promise, a kind of special excitement I felt was just for me; and she made me feel it was in her, too. She was extraordinary. She's the most beautiful girl in the world, Cajun, and I wanted her right there, during that first routine interview we had, when I was lining up witnesses for Senator Hubert. I took her to dinner that night. I know how cold and distant she looks to most men. She's torture for every man who watches her walk and breathe and sees how she's put together. That night at dinner she let me think it was there just for me. For me alone."