Assignment — Stella Marni

by Edward S. Aarons

  Durell stood up slowly and waded back to the opposite shore of the channel.

  Ten minutes later he stood wrapped in a large towel, drinking bourbon in Blossom's kitchen. The dead agent still lay untouched in the sitting room, and Durell did not bother to look at him again. He helped himself to sliced cold beef and some bread, which he swallowed between long pulls at the bourbon. He did not think be would ever be warm again. He left his clothes in a wet bundle on the kitchen floor and rummaged upstairs in Blossom's bedroom, the only one furnished, and found a blue serge suit that fitted reasonably well, added a white shirt and dark figured tie, fresh socks. Blossom's black shoes were too narrow to be comfortable, but they were better than his own sodden cordovans. He finished the beef and the bread, took one last drink of bourbon, and felt better, physically, but no other way.

  There could be no explanation to General McFee about his delay, his loss of Stella Marni. the general disaster that had followed him. There were no excuses he could give to Blossom, because Blossom was dead, and so was Frank Greenwald; and unless he was too far wrong, Stella Marni would be on the Boroslav bound for Hungary within the next few hours.

  He could never explain Stella Marni to anyone. Whatever she was, whatever she had done to him, he did not quite understand himself.

  He was no better or worse than Harry Blossom, in some ways. Blossom was dead. And for all intents and purposes, as far as Washington was concerned, Sam Durell could be dead, too.

  Slowly and gradually, his anger came.

  He sat still in the growing dusk in the sitting room and looked at Blossom's ashy, dead face, but he did not see Blossom or the curved fireplace of Vermont marble, or the faded plush curtains over the tall windows that yielded an evening view of lavender salt marshes and darkening sea.

  He went over everything that had happened from the moment Art Greenwald had talked to him in Washington three days ago, asking him to help his brother. He hadn't helped much. Frank was dead, and maybe Art had died by now, too. And then Deirdre had joined the picture and he had hurt her grievously, not wanting to hurt her ever. But it was done. There were Blossom's warning words. Blossom's sudden destruction as a man and a fine agent. And his failure to work with Tom Markey. He went over everything. He spared himself none of the mistakes he had make.

  His anger grew.

  He knew now which had been the biggest mistake of all.

  He moved differently, with purpose and organization, when he stood up. He knew what had to be done.

  He found the telephone in a hall alcove under the wide dark stairs. It was growing dusk when he called the hospital to inquire about Art Greenwald. The supervisor gave him no information except to state that Art's postoperative condition was as well as could be expected.

  He phoned his hotel next and asked for Deirdre Padgett. It rang in an empty room. She was not there.

  His next call was to Clem Anderson, in Washington. When Anderson's mild voice replied, Durell asked what had been done about Captain Grozni's family in Gdynia.

  "Been waiting to hear from you, Sam," Anderson replied. "I gave it top priority, as you asked. We contacted the family — mother and daughters. Living in an apartment at Drodensing Street Our man talked to the subjects personally. They're on their way West."

  "How?"

  "Fishing boat on the Baltic. I'm supposed to hear the minute they land. But anything can happen, Sam. They might have been caught, the boat stopped by a patrol — anything. We don't know they're safe yet."

  "How much longer do we wait? I need Grozni," Durell said impatiently. "He won't play ball unless his people are absolutely safe."

  "I hope to hear in about an hour, Sam. Can't do more."

  "All right. Thanks, anyway."

  Durell's next call was to Tony Isotti. Tony spoke quickly:

  "Sam, we're in trouble. Don't talk. I think the line is bugged. Markey is after us with all his shootin' irons. I'm only here to pick you up and take you back to Washington. McFee's orders. It's a real hassle, shaping up into a board of inquiry for you. The Attorney General and State have been like a couple of cats spitting at each other. McFee wants the White House to mediate. So far it hasn't nil the newspapers, but if it leaks, our throats get cut."

  "It's not that bad, Tony," Durell said.

  "Where in hell have you been?"

  "Detained. But not willingly."

  "Are you all right, Cajun?"

  'I've got some things for you to do," Durell said. "I know we're off the case officially now. But did you check out the officers of the New American Society?"

  "Yeah. John Kxame president, H. T. Lament treasurer, William X. McChesney secretary."

  Durell was not surprised. "You're sure about Krame?"

  "It wasn't easy to get. They had a dummy list of executives. Park Avenue people who went through the motions and didn't know the score." Isotti laughed sourly. "For every nominal officer, they had a shadow executive doing the real work. You've got the right names."

  "Where does the money come from?"

  "Philanthropies, subscriptions, and points unknown."

  "Any foreign money?»

  "Could be. I ran my head against a blank wall there. The books have a few items specified by the usual charity sour. but it's only a pittance. Most of the cash income is listed under miscellaneous."

  "What about Lamont and McChesney?"

  "Lamont has a police record under a couple of aliases as a con man specializing in charity rackets. Comes from Quebec, originally. Also some felony raps against him in Kansas City, and one here in New York for heisting a fistful of jewels from a society woman out on Long Island. He did four years' time in Ossining from '38 to '42 for gas-station stickup. He was young and wild and woolly then. No real violence since that time."

  "McChesney?"

  "Fourteen arrests, no convictions. A pet of the local vice squad. They'd love to rap him, Sam. Suspected of pimping, peddling horse, smuggling Swiss watches, distributing feelthy films. Not a junkie himself, but seven arrests on suspicion of distributing, as well as a number of minor con rackets. He's on the Attorney General's subversive list, too, as a member of front organizations. They have him down as a strong-arm goon for subversive outfits, strike busting, the usual labor racketeering. Real pretty history, but slippery as an eel. Married to a former night-club dancer, Gerda Smith, once billed as the Bell Dancer. She works for the society, too."

  "It figures," Durell said. "Birds of a feather. What about Damion?"

  He takes care of all the business front. Far as I could see, he's blank. An honest John who handles all the legitimate collections and babies the members. Retired as an accordion manufacturer, naturalized citizen born in Poland, has just enough private income to let him play with his pets. He may be clean."

  "Good, Tony. Meet me at the society house in an hour.

  "Sam, we've got to get back to Washington."

  "Later. We'll wind this up tonight. Have you got an extra gun?"

  "Sure, but..."

  "Bring it for me."

  "Sam, do you know what you're doing?"

  "Bring me a gun. In one hour."

  Durell hung up. He sat still, his eyes bleak and brooding, was quiet in the house. He wished for a cigarette, but he had none. After a moment he asked the operator for the New York FBI district office. Tom Markey was at his desk. Durell spoke rapidly and Markey was ominously silent for the first few minutes. Then Markey said:

  "I've got a bug on you, Cajun. We've traced the call. You're at Blossom's place. You stay there, bear me?"

  "I'm coming into town. Did you crack Krame's studio?"

  Markey seemed annoyed. "Yeah. Found the hoodlum you say you killed. And the cage up in the tower. Quite a spot. This big fellow with the broken neck was Karl Poltovsky — a dock worker. Also acted as part-time cook at the New American Society."

  "And the safe?"

  "We got Krame's books. You can read about it in the papers. You stay where you are, Cajun. Stay there with Harry Blossom
, hear?"

  "Harry is dead," Durell said.

  There was another long silence while Durell described what had happened. He did not withhold anything. There were times when it had to be played by ear, and times when organization was the only way to produce results. He counted on Markey's innate sense of duty and decency, on Markey's training, to put the case first, above any personal vexations.

  "So they've got the girl again,*' Durell said. "And her father. They won't trust her any more. Maybe they've killed her already. They won't risk letting her testify to Senator Hubert's people again, and that means if they don't kill her they'll smuggle her out of the country fast. Tonight, probably, on the Boroslav." Durell paused. "We need her, Tom.

  "We've checked out the ship twice. We'll do it again, but..."

  "Not yet. We have to knock over the New American Society first. Pick up Krame, McChesney, Lamont, the Smith girl. They may use a plane instead of the ship, but I'm betting on the Boroslav. They could play the shell game with Stella Marni aboard, even if we had fifty men for the search. We can get a few from Immigration and Customs, but not enough. Stella could be hustled from one hiding place to another aboard that rat's nest and we'd never find her."

  "We could get an order to hold the vessel in port," Markey said, grudgingly agreeing with Durell's plan.

  "The minute someone shows up with a paper in his hands, there will be a diplomatic stink and we'll never find Stella. They'll use another route to smuggle her out, or just kill her. This way, as long as they think we believe the ship is clean, they'll take her there," Durell said earnestly. "I can find her, if she's aboard. Go along with me on this, Tom. You have every reason to be sore, but play ball just this once."

  "You're crazy," Markey said; but his voice was not angry now.

  "I'm sorry about Harry."

  "He asked for it. Just as you're asking for it."

  "Meet me in an hour, Tom."

  Markey spoke with a last burst of exasperation. "Man, do you know what it costs? Senator Hubert's flown to Washington, yelling you've thrown everything at sixes and sevens. You came to town and the whole case..."

  "One hour, Tom," Durell said.

  He put down the phone and swung into action.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Forty minutes later he was in Manhattan. He called the hotel for Deirdre but she still was not in her room or in the lobby. Then he drove west on Canal and turned north toward Greenwich Village. It was dusk, and the city was a miracle of lights seen through the chill mists. It was almost five o'clock when he parked near Sheridan Square and walked down the little cobbled backwash of a street where the New American Society had its headquarters.

  The hooting of tugs came from the river, and traffic on Greenwich Avenue was muted. There were only a few hurrying people on the sidewalks. The air was raw and cold. The street lights came on as Durell passed a parked car where a man sat idly behind the wheel and another man sat smoking a cigarette. There was a shadow in a doorway across from the corner, twenty feet from a small Italian grocery.

  Tony Isotti was in the grocery, eating a slab of cheese and a handful of crackers while he talked in Italian to the dark, pretty girl behind the counter. He looked youthful and handsome, with his hat pushed back over his dark curly hair. He looked like a college boy. He said, "Hi," to Durell, whispered something to the girl that made her giggle wildly, and walked to the doorway of the grocery with Durell.

  "On the button," Tony said. "You want the gun here?"

  Durell nodded and took the short-barreled Colt .32 and put it in his pocket, looking down the street. "Those are Markey's men in the cars?"

  "He's waiting in the Olds sedan."

  "Come on."

  They crossed the cobbled street. A few lights shone in the old-law tenements that flanked the Olds sedan. Markey sat with his pipe clenched between his teeth, beside a dark man in a blue topcoat. The FBI agent's face was grim, set in bulldog fashion. His eyes were not happy as he surveyed Durell and Isotti.

  "I've got a man on the roof, another in the alley back there. Two at this corner, two at the other. All I could scrape up, without calling in the local cops. This one is off the record, Sam. We flop it, and I'm through. The whole thing is really too hot for this kind of play."

  "I'm right," Durell said. "I know I'm right."

  "We picked up Lamont in a Times Square bar. He's outraged. Not talking. We're holding him at our office for now. Won't say where the others are, but we think McChesney is here. Maybe Krame, too. Lot of people in there for dinner, I think. I hope to God you're right on this one, Cajun."

  "What about Gerda Smith?"

  "Inside. With Damion."

  "Then let's go. Do you want to run it, Tom?"

  "It's your baby. You cradle it, rock it to sleep."

  "Good," Durell said.

  * * *

  The raid began with the precision of a military operation. Durell, with Markey and his driver and Tony Isotti, went to the front door. In the big sitting room on the right were a dozen elderly people playing cards or chess or just conversing. Their faces were startled, reflecting old fears as the four men burst in. Markey's driver kept them where they were. Tony darted ahead into the kitchen and came out with two women cooks and a male chef who cursed fluently in Bulgarian until Tony herded them into the sitting room with the guests. Isotti came back grinning.

  "There's a dame locked in the john back there."

  "Get her out," Durell ordered. "With the others."

  A querulous voice called down from the upper floor, asking what the difficulty was. Markey and Durell went up the steps first. One of the women in the sitting room behind them suddenly began to scream on a high, hysterical note. From the hallway at the head of the stairs came a sudden silvery jingling and Durell glimpsed a swirling skirt, a tiny woman's body, provocatively large bosom, white heart-shaped face.

  "Gerda!" he yelled. "Hold it!"

  She turned and ran. A door slammed. A moment later all the lights went out, throughout the house.

  Durell swore softly. There was enough evening glow outside to filter through some of the windows, making dark pools of shadow in the hallways. There was a third floor, where the sleeping rooms were located. Durell halted on the second landing, drew his gun, and sent Tony Isotti upstairs to check the top level.

  A shot suddenly cracked in the alley behind the house.

  The woman downstairs kept on screaming.

  Durell and Markey hit the door to the office section of the second floor. Behind them, a man came out of the billiard room with a cue stick in his hand. He dropped the stick and ducked back again.

  "Get him," Durell snapped.

  Without waiting to watch Markey, he slammed his shoulder against the outer office door again. It was solidly locked. He hit it again and it splintered a little, but the lock did not give. He heard Tony yell upstairs; another shot crashed. Durell drew back a few steps and kicked hard above the latch. Metal snapped and the door burst inward. He plunged through quickly. A dark shape lunged at him from behind Gerda's desk and Durell took the man's charge on his shoulder, lifting him off his feet and crashing him across Gerda's desk. A chair splintered and the man went down, a gun spilling from his hand. Durell kicked it aside. The man climbed up and tried to swing, and Durell chopped at him with his gun and slammed him back against the wall.

  "Let me go," the man gasped. "What's the raid for?"

  "Name?"

  "McChesney. What is this?"

  "You're under arrest."

  "You a cop?"

  "Where is Damion?"

  "I don't know."

  "Gerda?"

  "Gone. Out the back way, you bastard."

  Durell hit him open-handed across the mouth and pushed him stumbling toward the door, where Markey appeared and caught him and sent him on his way downstairs to join the others in the roundup. From far in the distance came the keening sirens and Durell hoped Markey could explain the raid to the metropolitan cops. Then he hit the door to t
he conference room. This was locked, too. Apparently McChesney had been caught between two locked doors. Durell took his gun and fired two bullets through the lock and watched metal jump and the door swing inward.

  "Take it easy, Sam," Markey said.

  The board room was almost totally dark. "There's a master switch somewhere here," Durell said. "Gerda pulled it. Find it, Tom."

  Nothing moved in the dark room ahead. Dimly, Durell made out the long tables and chairs neatly ranked along the wall. Beyond was the door to Damion's office. It would be locked. He drew a deep, frustrated breath. There was no sign of Gerda Smith. He wanted to tear the truth from her. He wanted to know where they had put Stella Marni. He moved across the room and this time a shot came from the rooftop, following a harsh yell. Heavy feet pounded on the ceiling above, from the third floor.

  Durell broke the lock on Damion's door and slammed in.

  Gray dusk outlined the window behind Damion's desk. There was no one here. Gerda had disappeared. Dead end.

  A groaning came from behind the big desk. Durell went around it and found Damion on the floor under the overturned swivel chair. The man's white hair had blood on it and his eyes were open and glazed as Durell hauled him upright. Markey straightened the chair and the big man dropped into it as Durell snapped: "What happened to you?"

  "Gerda ..."

  "Where is she? And Krame?"

  "Gone. My head hurts...

  Durell looked exasperated. "Is there any other way out of here?"

  "Back stairs... old servants' staircase... closet door..."

  Durell spun, yanked open the first door he saw, faced shelves of stationery and office equipment, pulled open the second door beside it, and saw narrow steps angling up and down. The running footsteps on the third floor had stopped. Tony Isotti came into the office behind them. There was a welt on the young man's jaw.

  "That McChesney punk will spill his guts."

  "Good," Durell said. "Have you seen Gerda Smith?"

  "Uh-uh."

  "She and John Krame are the real brains of this outfit. They can tell us where to find Stella Marni.'*