The Charlemagne Murders

by Douglass, Carl;

  “We don’t know for real what we ah gonna encounta in this heah situation. No use us gettin’ all shot up because we don’ know what’s what. How ‘bout you two fine depities go on round the back, and Dayne and me’ll check out the front. Give a sqwak on ya’ll’s horns if ya’ll see somethin’ ya don’ lak,” Billie Wayne suggested.

  To get along, Fort Worth PD and Tarrant County sheriffs did not give each other orders, just suggestions.

  The two teams split up. The deputies gave a short call indicating that everything was clear.

  “Me and Dayne’re fixin’ ta go in the front. Ya’ll go in the back. Say in thirty seconds.”

  “Copy.”

  Both front and rear entries into the sanatorium were locked. Billie Wayne knocked several times, but could not get anyone to come and open the doors.

  He called the department to let them know they were going in and to warn the FBI and all other reinforcements that their entrance into the old sanatorium to arrest the possible killer of the Army officer was in progress. Dayne was larger than Billy Wayne, and he kicked in the door. He and Billy Wayne entered the facility, guns drawn. The commotion of knocking in the door brought the attention of a busy nurses’ aide who was passing out the day’s doses of isoniazid. He rushed out of the ward towards the front door where the noise was coming from and nearly got himself shot for his efforts.

  “Hands in the air! Keep ‘em where we can see ‘em,!” yelled Dayne, pointing his revolver at the aide’s heart.

  “Who’re you, guys?” the aide asked, less excited than the two law officers once he realized they were cops.

  “Fot Wuth po-lice and sheriff’s depahtment. Who’s in charge heah?”

  “That’d be Nurse Digby. Ruth Digby. She’s in a patient’s room workin’ to clean him up.”

  “Put ya’lls hands down and take us to him. Let’s all keep rat quite, y’heah. We gotta surprise for a killah comin’ up.”

  They made their way down the poorly lit hallway. Paint was peeling of the walls and ceiling, and patches of plywood showed through worn linoleum.

  “This here’s where Mizz Digby is, Officers. Want me to announce ya’ll?”

  “No, thanks. We’ll take it from heah. Ya’ll get yuhsef back to the wahd like nuthin’s goin’ on. Don’t let on we’re heah. Awrat?”

  “Yes, suh.”

  Billy Wayne knocked softly on the door to avoid startling the head evening nurse.

  “Weah in the middle a thengs in heah. Can ya’ll wait a bit?”

  “Afraid not, Mizz Digby. Weah frum the po-lice. We need ta talk with ya. We got a urgent mattah goin’ on.”

  As soon as Billy Wayne gave his order to the nurse, he regretted it and wished that he and Dayne had had the good grace to step out of the room. The stench was overwhelming—worse than a rural privy.

  “Pe-u!” said Dayne. “That’d gag a maggot.”

  “So, what’s so impotant, Officers?” Nurse Digby asked, more than a little perturbed at the interruption.

  “We have information that a professional killah might just be hidin’ in ona the Elmwood buildin’s. Ah ya’ll aweah of any patient comin’ inta the establishment coughin’ a lotta blood this evenin’, Ma’am?”

  “This place is full of patients coughin’ up blood, most frum the white plague, Officah. Could be in any ona these waitin’ rooms for death. Anythin’ bettah ta go on?”

  “Man wuz probly outta the hospital mosta the day, oh mebbe he come in fresh today oah yestiddy. Cain’t be shua about that. What we’a shua ‘bout, though, is that he was bleedin’ purty bad—coughin’ up big clarks a blood, usin’ lottsa hankies oah toilet papah.”

  “We did get a kinda strange one yestiddy oah the day befoah. Name wuz somethin’ lak a fancy English gentaman, wouldn’ ya know. C’mon ovah ta the desk, an’ ah’ll do ma best ta find the one ah mean.”

  She paused then opened the door to the room with the fragrant patient and called into the nurses’ aide, “Sally Rose, honey, sorry;but ah haveta go with the po-lice men foah a bit. Finish up, please, then we’ll havta do oah rounds. Be a bit late tonaght, ah’m afraid.”

  The law enforcement officers followed the tired-looking nurse to her desk. She opened a metal medical record holder and ran her finger down a list of names.

  “This heah’s the one ya’ll maght be a lookin’ foah. Take a gander at this heah name.”

  They read “Dennis Cunningham Lord Downfort.”

  “Sound’s lak a pimp name,” Dayne said. “How old’s this fella?”

  “Look’s oldah than he probly is, Deputy. My guess is that he’s pushin’ sixty, but he looks more like eighty with one foot in the grave and t’other on a banana peel. We hadda give him morphine to calm down that god-awful cougha his. He don’ look lak much uv a killah—moah lak a victim.”

  “Let’s go and see this famous English Lo-ad Downfort. Ya’ll stand back frum the doah when we git theah, Mizz Digby,” said Billy Wayne.

  “Whatevah ya’ll say, Sergeant.”

  She took the police officers to the next-to-the-last door in the hallway. It was fairly dark there owing to the absence of the overhead light.

  “Sorry, ya’ll. County don’ keep the place up all that well nowah days,” Nurse Digby said by way of a halfhearted apology.

  Wasn’t her fault.

  The officers drew their revolvers. Billy Wayne motioned to the nurse to stay back. Dayne softly turned the doorknob and then flung the door open wide. The two armed men rushed in to the room with Billy Wayne moving to the right, and Dayne to the left. It was evident when they got into the fully lit room that they could have ridden horses and given banshee yells without waking up the patient. He was almost comatose but breathing easily, with only occasional soft coughing productive of bubbles of bright red blood. He was thin—emaciated—and had the sallow complexion of a man about to meet his maker and glad of it.

  “Don’ look all that dangerous ta me,” Dayne observed, and Billy Wayne nodded.

  “Exceptin’ fa gettin’ the red snappers on ya frum ona the poah souls lak this here one. His bedroom mate is likely ta heah him coughin’ hissef ta exhaustion and then seein’ an empty bed with clean sheets in the mahnin’.”

  “Any uthahs coughin’ up lottsa blood lak this’un, Ma’am?” Billy Wayne asked Nurse Digby.

  “We gotta lotta fairly sick old lungers in heah, gentlemen; this’un is bah fah the wusta the lot. And he’s the only one that come in heah last coupla days. Record says his friends took him out foah little excursion yestiddy—kinda constitutional outing. Gone the whole day.”

  “Must be our guy. Don’ look all that dangerous.”

  “Not now that he’s been sedated, Dayne; but ya’ll nevah know. Mebbe he was bettah earleah.”

  “Oah mebbe he made one last effort today.”

  “Could be. Ah thenk we bettah leave him be ‘til the rangers and the FBI agents git heah. Ah don’ want him to croak on oah watch. Let’s ya’ll and me set a spell in heah and watch him. Ah’ll go out and use the desk phone, call this in. We don’ need the cavalry gallopin’ in heah scarin’ these poah foaks haf outta theah minds.”

  “Ah agree. Let’s hope the rest of ‘em gits heah PDQ, or else this one ain’t gonna be much of a witness.”

  Recipes for Sanatorium Food, ca 1950s

  The ideal diet for tuberculosis patients consists of good nutrition with leafy, dark-colored greens like kale and spinach, for their high iron and B-vitamin content, plenty of whole grains including whole wheat pastas, breads, and cereals, antioxidant-rich, brightly-colored vegetables, such as carrots, peppers, and squash, and fruits like tomatoes, blueberries, and cherries, unsaturated fats like vegetable or olive oil instead of butter, a daily multivitamin with minerals, and high calorie energy foods. The patient is encouraged to eat hearty portions of lean protein sources like poultry, beans, tofu, and fish. No coffee or other caffeinated drinks and a bare minimum of refined products like sugar, white breads, or white rice, alcohol, or drugs of ab
use.

  In the 1940s and 50s, the reality in sanatoria was different owing not to ignorance or stinginess, but to lack of funding in some counties. In those days, and in those places, staffing was limited, and the aides had to hurry. The patient experienced a brief encounter with a harried nurse or aide delivering a plate with two or three stale slices of bread and a pat of butter, and a large thick mug holding a knife and fork. A later meal was likely to feature a plate of cold meat and potatoes with a large enamel mug of tea or cocoa. Patients like jail inmates referred to the fare as “Indian rubber beefsteak, disconnected cheese, and coffee that tastes like tobacco juice.” The best food the patients received, but the least appreciated, was a daily tablespoonful of cod liver oil. Teaspoons were in short supply; the patient had the choice of stirring with the meaty end or the handle end of his or her fork and licking it clean before proceeding with the meat, if it was meat day. Besides the tedium of the same food schedule week in and week out, it was a bit dispiriting and jail-like since plates, mugs, and utensils were all marked with the patient’s admission number and engraved with the phrase, “Stolen from Elmwood,” to discourage thievery.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Tarrant County Elmwood Sanatorium, outside Fort Worth, Texas, September 31, 1962, late evening

  Fort Worth PD Sgt. Billie Wayne McAfee and Tarrant County Deputy Sheriff Dayne Brown had a conundrum: follow procedure and wait until their superiors and the other agencies’ people arrived on the scene and risk having the old man die in his sleep without giving up any vital information, or they take the initiative and wake him up and risk getting him so excited that he croaks resulting in IA, bringing them up on charges for violating protocol or worse, for police harassment and involuntary manslaughter, or some such b——t like that.

  “Whadda ya’ll think we oughta do, Dayne?” Billie Wayne asked after they had talked the problem to death.

  “Punt.”

  “How? Take the option of just waitin’ and lettin’ the brass handle it?”

  “No. What ah mean is see what Nurse Digby thinks about the Lo-ad Downfart’s condition. Is the man lak as not goin’ ta have a heart attack or a stroke or somethin’ if we try and wake him up?”

  “Ah lak that idee. Let’s fetch the woman and git her expertise.”

  The question was posed to the nurse.

  “Not relevant, ya’ll. The lord in there is out fa the naght. He had a big sulga morphine. Mess with ‘im an’ about all ya’ll’l git is a few mumbles. No amounta coffee, yellin’, or manhandlin’ is gonna change that.”

  “We got oah answer, Billie Wayne. Let’s jist set and jaw fah a bit ‘till the higha-ups, the fibbies, an’ the rangers show up. If it’s okay with ya’ll, I’ll call in the info this time; and you get yoah dispatch ta put ya’ll in touch with the rangers and whoevah else is fixin’ ta descend on us poah hick cops heah on the scene.”

  “Good. Give us somethin’ ta do,” Billie Wayne said.

  He asked one deputy and one PD cop to guard the door—nobody in or out without permission by McAfee or Brown until the brass arrived. Nurse Digby was the exception, of course. He asked the other pair to start a canvass throughout the hospital—including patients, nurses, and staff.

  After calling dispatch at police headquarters and the sheriff’s department and giving a brief, typical beat cop, Dick-and-Jane-and-Spot rendition of the status of the activity at the scene, Dayne took the initiative to get dispatch to put him through to the rangers. They talked his language. Billie Wayne was busy on the horn with the brass back in Fort Worth PD headquarters.

  “This heah’s Depity Sheriff Dayne Brown at the Elmwood TB hospital. Me an’ Foat Wuth Sergeant Billie Wayne McAfee have the subject under control and in ouah surveillance. He’s a real sick dude. What’s yoah ETA?”

  “Hey, Dayne. This heah’s Ranger Eldred Drake. We ah comin’—laghts an’ sirens. Be theah mebbe ten-fifteen minutes.”

  “Ya got the raght idee. Man’s fixin’ to meet his makah PDQ. Hope we kin get somethin’ outta him befoah he does.”

  “Copy that.”

  Billie Wayne got through to the FBI special agents on their way from Dallas and the INTERPOL chief from New York. The former told him that they would be on scene in less than half an hour, and the latter said it would be maybe two or three hours owing to problems with air traffic. Then, Billie Wayne redialed Fort Worth PD and asked the night duty officer to start a search for anything they could learn about Dennis Cunningham Lord Downfort.

  Nurse Ruth Digby ventured a suggestion, “Ah looked up the insurance info on the great lord. He don’ have none. The bill’s goin’ to a corporation—name’s European International Conglomerate.”

  “Any chance of a address an’ telephone numbah, ma’am?”

  “Ah knew ya’ll’d axe me that, Sergeant. Answer’s yes. No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London. An’ ah don’ mean the London ovah theah in Kimble county. Got a pencil? The numbah’s different than our’n. Heah ya go: 01-WHItehall 1321. Instructions ah to dial up the 01 foah the city, then the WHI, then wait. An operatah will come on and axe ya’ll foah the rest of the numbahs—the 1321. She could axe ya’ll for the numbahs that correspond to the ‘t-e-h-a-l-l.’ That’s just what’s above the telephone metal ring foah dialin’;, so, it’s 8 foah the t, 3 foah the e, 4 foah the h, 2 foah the a, and then finally 55 foah the two l’s. Got that?”

  “Ah wrote it down. I thank ah kin handle it. Seems purty complicated if ya’ll axe me.”

  While Billie Wayne was working out the complex foreign system, Dayne had a sudden inspiration. He put in a call to the sheriff’s department and asked his deputy on call to see what he could learn about the European International Conglomerate.

  “Get the FBI involved if ya’ll need to.”

  Billie Wayne decided against making the call to London without authorization. Instead, he called the FBI special agents again and got them involved. They called back to their main headquarters in the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building and arranged for them to deal with INTERPOL and the London office of the FBI.

  INTERPOL dispatch informed Senior Detective Chief Superintendent of INTERPOL Eugène Dentremont, Detective Chief Inspector Lincoln Crandall-White—the New Scotland Yard senior homicide detective on the British murder case—and SAC Douglas Wilson of the London FBI bureau office who arranged for a joint task force to obtain a warrant for a no-knock raid on the Upper Belgrave Street offices.

  §§§§§§

  Soviet Naval Aviation Office, A-253, Chapayevskiy Per., Dom 19, across from the Moscow Military District Headquarters, 1600 hours Moscow time, the same late evening

  Antoine—known to his russkaya mafiya confederates as Laird Eagen—sat and fidgeted on the uncomfortable couch ten feet from the windows that looked down at the Moscow Military District Headquarters entrance on Chapayevskiy Per below the room in which he was sitting. The office staff of the naval aviation office got a special treat that afternoon; they were all given the rest of the day off. The officers of the aviation office got the credit and a nice bonus; the russkaya mafiya were paid what amounted to a year’s salary for one of the clerks in the office; and Antoine had his front row seat. He just had to be patient and to wait until the Moscow Military District meeting came to an end. He knew that one of the attendees was Lt. Gen. Dimitri Sobrieski who was to receive a commendation for his service in Novosibirsk. It was rumored that the commendation was a smooth way to move him out of his post and into retirement.

  Antoine had conducted the business of setting all of this up with the pakhan and his brigadier, Krespin Brundinovich, who was in charge of all of the on-site activities except for the actual sniper shot—Antoine had reserved that strictly for himself. Krespin was the leader of a crew made up of six boyeviks and shestyorkas [warriors]. The warriors were almost robotic in their slavish deference and obedience to Krespin. They served as lookouts to alert Antoine and Krespin as soon as Antoine’s quarry showed himself on the street.

  Antoine and two of th
e boyeviks set up the gun—a Finnish RK 62 modified into a sniper rifle. A fifteen-round magazine of 7.62×39mm Soviet rounds was locked in place; a round was chambered; and the safety was off. The rifle was guaranteed to be in perfect working order and to be sighted in at two hundred yards. One useful addition appreciated by Antoine was the 4x Zeiss ZF42 telescopic sight the pakhan himself had mounted and verified for its accuracy.

  Antoine knew that he had only one shot, and he had to make it a good one.

  The hands of the utilitarian Soviet wall clock moved with glacial slowness towards the 1800 hour when the warriors and Antoine had been promised that the lieutenant general would make his brief appearance on the sidewalk and even more briefly on the street as he would be helped into a waiting limo.

  Four-thirty … five-fifteen … five-forty … five-fifty. Antoine was sitting in place leaning across a table and sighting the rifle scope at a point where men’s heads on the sidewalk had been unwittingly giving the assassin an opportunity for precise positioning of his weapon. Five-fifty-three. Five-fifty-five. Antoine was sweating, and it annoyed him. Couldn’t be helped. He was not getting any younger, and he was out of practice. He was pleased that his hands were as steady as they were during his days as a leader of sniper units in the Charlemagne Division of the SS.

  Five-fifty-six. A noncom stepped out of the entrance and looked up and down Chapayevskiy Per. Apparently seeing nothing amiss, he returned back inside. Antoine and his two boyeviks gently slid the office window open and moved the rifle forward enough that it was about three inches beyond the level of the glass. He resighted through the 4x Zeiss ZF42 telescopic sight at full magnification and was pleased with the enlargement and the famous Zeiss clarity. Five-fifty-eight.