“And I would assume that if the State Department purchased three hundred copies of your books, you would receive some royalties.”
A tiny nod from the author. “I should imagine so.”
Several nods from the prosecutor. “Could you tell us what your royalties are, by percentage?”
Hammett flipped a hand. “On the books published by Alfred Knopf, I think it starts at fifteen percent.”
McCarthy—sitting back now, as if trying to get as far away from this odious witness as possible—asked brusquely, “Did any of the money which you received from the State Department find its way into the coffers of the Communist Party?”
Hammett again matter-of-factly declined to answer.
Cohn, showing no opinion of the witness at all, asked, “Is it a fair statement that you have received substantial sums of money from the royalties on all of the books you have written?”
“Yes, that is a fair statement.”
“And you decline to tell us whether any of these moneys went to the Communist Party?”
“That is right.”
McCarthy shook his head and smirked at several other senators on the dais.
Cohn pressed on. “Is it a fact that you have allowed the use of your name as sponsor and member of governing bodies of Communist front organizations?”
Hammett declined to answer.
Now Cohn raised his voice somewhat, but his youth made that seem like he was trying too hard. “Mr. Hammett, is it a fact that you recently served a term in prison?”
A tiny nod from Hammett. “Yes. I did six months on the bail-bond matter—actually, five months.” The writer smiled again, just barely. “I got time off for good behavior.”
Some mild laughter rippled across the spectator section. I admired the wry good humor of this long-in-the-tooth Black Mask boy; but the thought of this frail-looking individual being incarcerated was anything but funny.
McCarthy, irritated, snapped, “That was a contempt citation, was it not?”
The chin came up again, daring his inquisitor. “Yes, over the bail-bond fund.”
Cohn craned to address McCarthy. “After certain Communist leaders jumped bail, three trustees, including Mr. Hammett, were called in and refused to answer questions about the whereabouts of the fugitives, and they refused to produce books and records of the bail-bond fund, and were sentenced to jail.”
This little speech was disingenuous, because of course McCarthy already knew all that; but both the senator and his committee’s counsel wanted it said in public, and got into the record.
Now Cohn turned back to Hammett, a cobra eyeing its prey. “Is that a fairly accurate statement?”
“Fairly.”
“Do you know the whereabouts of any of these fugitive Communist leaders today?”
“No.”
“You say you don’t know?”
“I don’t know.”
Sitting forward again, McCarthy asked, rapid-fire, “Did you know where they were at any time while the government was searching for them?”
“No.”
“Do I understand that you arranged the bail bond for these fugitives?”
Hammett declined to answer, and then also refused to say whether he’d contributed any funds to the bail-raising effort.
McCarthy was hunched over, ready to pounce. “Have you ever engaged in espionage against the United States?”
Firm but quiet: “No.”
“Have you ever engaged in sabotage?”
“No, sir.”
The bobbing big head punctuating, McCarthy pounded, “Do you believe that the Communist system is better than the system in use in this country?”
Hammett thought for a moment. Then: “I don’t think Russian Communism is better for the United States, no.”
Grinning, McCarthy leaned back, tapping his black-rimmed glasses on the table. “You seem to distinguish between Russian Communism and American Communism. I cannot see any distinction, but would you think that American Communism would be a good system to adopt in this country?”
Hammett thought about that, as if he were taking part in a reasonable conversation, then said, “That can’t be answered ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ Senator. Theoretical Communism is no form of government—there is no government. I doubt I could give a definite answer.”
McCarthy pressed: “Would you favor the adoption of Communism in this country?”
“You mean right now?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You would not?”
“It’s impractical when people don’t want it.”
That stopped McCarthy momentarily. “Did you favor the Communist system when you were writing these books?”
Hammett declined to answer.
The writer was then questioned about testimony against him by a friendly witness who had identified him as a Communist, and declined to answer those questions as well.
Openly sneering now, McCarthy asked, “May I ask one further question, Mr. Hammett? If you were spending over a hundred million dollars a year on an information program allegedly for the purpose of fighting Communism, and if you were in charge of that program to fight Communism, would you purchase the works of Communist authors and distribute their works throughout the world?”
Hammett shrugged again. “Well, if I were fighting Communism, Senator, I don’t believe I would give people any books at all.”
That sucker-punched McCarthy, who muttered, “Unusual, coming from an author…”
Hammett was excused. He collected his Camels and made his way down the aisle through a lightning storm of camera flashes. He smiled a little and shook his head, refusing to answer any press questions without having to resort to the Fifth Amendment.
But that had slowed him down enough for me to catch up with him in the marble two-story rotunda, where he stood lighting up a cigarette.
“Mr. Hammett,” I said. “Nathan Heller.”
He gave me a nice grin and we shook hands. His grip was bony but firm. “I was expecting to meet you later at the Ambassador. That’s where the gentleman with Bradford said we’d connect.”
Bradford Investigations and my A-1 Agency backed each other up in our respective cities.
“Right, but I had to be over here today for another appointment, and figured I’d drop by the Caucus Room and, uh…”
“Catch the show?”
I grinned, a kid caught climbing over a stadium fence. “Something like that. Shall we find a bar with a quiet corner?”
“This is so sudden, Mr. Heller.” He exhaled smoke; his face had length and a bony angularity. “But maybe a coffee shop instead. I gave up drinking, so why tempt fate?”
“How about lunch? I mean, it’s only fair—you were already somebody else’s main course.”
He liked that remark.
We put on our respective hats and stepped out into a day breezy and cool but not enough so to inspire topcoats or even a London Fog.
I waved down a cab and told the driver, “Seventeenth and L Streets NW.”
As we rode, Hammett was concentrating on his smoking and maybe the wind-tossed skirts of the government girls on the sidewalks.
I said, “I thought writers were hard drinkers.”
“Oh, I’ve done far more drinking than writing. It’s just that I promised someone important in my life that I’d stop.”
“Who was that? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“My doctor.”
Duke Zeibert’s was a brick-fronted cavern impressively overseen by a massive white-on-black neon sign—
Duke Zeibert’s
RESTAURANT
—and a red-and-white canopy.
I’d been here a number of times, but I couldn’t say whether Duke himself really recognized me when he came over in his trademark white jacket and black bow tie to slap my back and shake hands. Bald and mustached, he was (as someone once said) like a cross between Ben Franklin and a bookie.
Giving Hammett a respec
tful bow, Duke said, “This gentleman looks very familiar to me, Mr. Heller.”
So he did recognize me. And this was his way of finding out if yet another celeb had wandered into his realm.
“Dashiell Hammett,” I said, making the intros, “Duke Zeibert—our host. Mr. Hammett’s the Sam Spade author, as you probably already know.”
Obviously Hammett didn’t love this kind of public fuss, but it might get us comped, so I took a shot.
“Mr. Hammett, sir,” Duke said, grinning and pumping the author’s hand. “An honor. Tell me, if I may be so bold. What is Humphrey Bogart really like?”
“Short,” Hammett said.
Duke laughed and led us past a glassed-in case of Redskins trophies on through the bar into the long narrow brick-walled dining room. He half-bowed and left us at our table. Mid-afternoon found Zeibert’s underpopulated for a place so often littered with politicians, sports figures, executives, and entertainers (if not Bogart yet). Today the three other tables taken had nobody recognizable.
A white-jacketed waiter in his fifties—all of the waiters here were at least fifty—brought us a basket of onion rolls and a bowl of pickles. We both ordered Duke’s Delight (“boiled beef in pot”) and coffee.
“I understand,” I said, after a bite of perfect pickle, “that you called my new Manhattan branch and inquired about my availability.”
Hammett nodded. He discreetly chewed and swallowed a small bite of onion roll and said, “I have an apartment in New York. Greenwich Village.”
Our coffee came.
I said, “Why inquire about a Chicago detective’s availability? Or do you have a job needs doing back on my turf? Even so, why me? Why not Pinkerton?” I gave him a small smile. “Or maybe Continental?”
I got a small smile back for my trouble: Continental was the fictional detective agency he used in some of his stories.
“So you’ve read me,” he said.
“I plead the Fifth.” I shrugged. “But you might say you inspired me to go into this trade.”
He shivered, and I doubted it was the tart taste of pickle. “Then I owe you an apology. It can be a dirty business.”
“It can.”
His eyes drifted to one side. “But you know, I really did enjoy it.” Then a gaze that was at once hard and soft somehow returned to me. “As for why you, Mr. Heller … I read about you in Life magazine, although it painted you as more Hollywood than Chicago.”
He was referring to an article calling me the “Private Eye to the Stars.”
“Overstated,” I said, embarrassed again. “Just a bunch of puffery for the branch office I opened out there.”
He sipped coffee, black. “But it included some interesting background material. You were in the thick of some big jobs.”
I liked that he’d used the word “jobs,” not “cases.” He still had some real private op in him.
“Everything from the Lindbergh snatch,” he was saying, “to the Black Dahlia killing.”
“I was also bodyguard for Mayor Cermak, Huey Long, and Amelia Earhart. And you may have heard how they fared. But I’m flattered. What do you have in mind?”
“Your father was involved in the union movement,” he said, not exactly a direct answer.
“Yes. He ran a socialist bookshop on the West Side. But we didn’t see eye to eye.”
“On politics, you mean?”
“We didn’t even define the word the same way. To me politics was just getting ahead. I used a family connection that my father had severed, a long time ago, to get onto the Chicago P.D. You may recall it was the Depression, and that was a good job to have.”
“He didn’t appreciate you becoming a Cossack.”
That got a laugh out of me. “Aptly put. He killed himself, actually—over what a disappointment I’d become. I lied on a witness stand, you see. You should try it sometime.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“But you kind of already have. You checked up on me. Which is hard for a detective to resent, but I do anyway. I vote straight Democrat, Mr. Hammett, but then I’m from Chicago so don’t take that too literally.”
“I do apologize.”
I waved it off. “No need. It’s just that if you’re looking for a…”
“Fellow traveler?” he asked, something like a twinkle in those dark serious eyes.
I had to grin. “Let’s just say I’m a capitalist. I don’t do pro bono work, no matter how good the cause.”
He lifted the eyebrows and sat them back down. “Well, it’s a good cause, all right. But we’re not looking for a free ride.”
“‘We’?”
Our waiter came over, accompanied by Duke, and put down two big servings of prime rib in front of us. And I hadn’t seen baked potatoes that size since I’d dined with McCarthy in Mosinee.
Leaning in, Duke said, “Now, I can still get you the boiled beef if you like—it’s perfectly delicious—but I thought you might enjoy this more. All right, gentlemen? And either way, it’s on the house.”
My Chicago instincts were serving me well in the District of Columbia. I thanked our host profusely (Hammett just said, “Well, thank you”) and Duke went off grinning.
Stunned by the size of the serving, Hammett began to cut himself a bite and said, “As I say, the cause is a good one, and a number of us have put together a fund … not a bail fund this time … but a fund.”
“A number of you.”
He nodded. “The names, which in this case I’m happy to give up, are ones you’ll recognize … but keep in mind many of us do not make the kind of money we once did.”
“It’s a rough climate,” I said.
He shrugged. “In my case, all the radio shows based on my stuff have been canceled. State and federal people have heavy income tax liens on me. And Hollywood is out till this Red Scare is over.”
“Okay. Money is tight. I’m listening.”
He named names, all right: Dorothy Parker, Howard da Silva, Paul Robeson, W.E.B. DuBois, Alfred Kreymborg, Howard Fast, Ring Lardner Jr., John Howard Lawson, Leonard Bernstein, Arthur Miller, Thomas Mann, Lillian Hellman, and Albert Einstein.
“These are names,” he said, “that you must keep to yourself.”
“If we wind up doing business,” I said, “you’ll be covered. I work through an attorney so that I have client confidentiality.”
“Wise,” he said. Another shrug. “We can give you a flat three thousand dollars. It’s not a retainer but payment in full, to conduct an eleventh-hour investigation into the alleged crimes of two people who are sitting on Death Row at Sing Sing right now.”
“Not the … no…”
“Rosenbergs. Yes.”
Shit.
And I’ll be goddamned if Hammett, this old man of less than sixty sitting across from me, didn’t look like my father for a second there.
“You know that little prick Cohn,” he said, spearing a bite he made, “helped that D.A., that crook Saypol, put me away on the bail bond. And together they railroaded the Rosenbergs.”
“So you have a personal stake in it.”
“I’m human,” he admitted. “Julius and Ethel Rosenberg are no atomic spies, Mr. Heller. They’re innocent. We want you to prove it.”
I had a bite of prime rib dipped in horseradish sauce. Excellent.
“Call me Nate,” I said.
“Make it Dash,” he said.
CHAPTER
3
Around four-thirty, a cab dropped me back at First and C Streets—the Senate Office Building, one of three imposing white marble structures facing the Capitol grounds. Even this late in the day things were bustling, sidewalks full of well-dressed professional types, male and female, mostly under forty, lugging briefcases, hugging file folders, in a huge white-collar hurry. And yet government itself was a snail.
I went up the broad flight of steps on the S.O.B.’s southwest corner to a terraced landing, then through the main doorway, which opened onto the second floor. I was back in the
marble two-story rotunda with its balcony and conical ceiling, a vast space where worker bees flitted around over-forties who were laughing and talking and ambling along—senators and senior staff.
A uniformed elevator operator delivered me to an endless tunnel of a hallway lined with office doors tall enough to accommodate Abe Lincoln, stovepipe hat and all. Conversation echoed as I slipped unnoticed into a steady two-way stream of people who belonged here, the sound of footsteps on the marble-and-tile floor combining into an awkward tap dance.
When I got to McCarthy’s office, a tall shapely brunette in a tailored blue-trimmed white dress was just about to go in. Not quite thirty, Jean Kerr looked like the beauty queen she’d been, but she was much more. Among other things, she’d ghosted McCarthy’s anti-Communism book last year.
“Well, Nathan,” she said, beaming, her bright red lipstick completing a patriotic pinup, “hello.”
I held the door for her. Her hair up, her eyes a sparkling blue, this fairly ravishing Irish rose had gone to work for McCarthy straight out of college. Now she was his chief of staff.
“He’s in with Roy,” she said, with a fresh-faced openness that wasn’t quite flirtatious, “but I’ll let him know you’re here.… Can I take your hat?”
“Sure.”
She did so, then walked me into a conference area where staffers were at work before we took an immediate right through a short filing-cabinet-lined hall into the central area. Staffers were evenly split between females and males, some at their desks typing or bent over research, others filing or on their way back from or to somewhere. Most were no older than their mid-thirties.
Jean deposited me in one of a row of chairs along the wall near McCarthy’s office door and said she’d let the senator know I was here. While I waited, one of the young staffers in shirtsleeves and loosened tie looked over from his desk and squinted at me, removed his reading glasses, and squinted again.
He got up and came quickly over, a slight figure with tousled dark brown hair and boyish features. Until he gave me a bucktoothed grin, I didn’t recognize him.
“Bob Kennedy, Mr. Heller,” he said. “You probably don’t remember me.”
He held out his hand and I shook it, then started to get to my feet. He motioned me to sit back down and settled in next to me.
Better Dead Page 3