The Spycatcher Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

  “Now, Dick, don't be a tease. You shouldn't keep secrets, you naughty man.”

  “I…” He felt a finger tapping on his shoulder.

  “I'm sorry to spoil your fun, Dick, but we have to go now. I have an early morning appointment with my dentist to fix a broken tooth.”

  Moving closer to Cassie, he whispered, “She should have him fix her nose while he's at it. Maybe he can give her a two-for-one deal.”

  “Oh, Dick, you're simply terrible, but I'm going to give you my phone number just the same, and I hope I'm not being too forward when I ask for yours.”

  On their way out, Rosie and Dick said good-bye to their host. “Thank you so much, count, I've had a marvelous time as always.”

  The count kissed her hand.

  “Yeah, me too, count, but you don't need to kiss my hand or anyplace else. And don't forget to keep a stiff upper monocle.” Then he handed the count two half-empty glasses, tipped his green fedora, and bid him “Arfweederzane.”

  “I'm sure the count will never forget you,” Rosie said once they were outside.

  “You're just saying that to flatter me, Rosie, but a lot of people have said that they'd never forget me. I have that je ne sais squat, I guess.”

  “You can say that again, Dick.”

  “I have that je ne sais squat.”

  Silence prevailed during the trip back.

  “We're back to your place, big boy. Stop snoring, wake up, and get out. By the way, a word to the wise. Watch out for that hussy with the red hair, freckles, and pug nose. She's bad news.”

  Chapter 12

  “Has the time come for me to dispose of this pestilent Dick DeWitt, Ichiban? Please say yes.”

  “I must say no, loyal servant. Not yet. Understand that I would like to place him in a large lobster net and slowly submerge the net into boiling water. Then I would like to peel what remains of his flesh and feed it to hungry pigs, but not before plucking out his round eyes and serving them on a platter of egg foo yung.”

  “Do you hate him, Ichiban?”

  “Yes, and I swear by our Emperor and all our people, that vengeance will be mine.”

  Chapter 13

  DeWitt liked to play it cool. He didn't want dames to think that he was in hot pursuit of them, and so he waited to call Cassie an hour after he awoke the next morning. He walked unsteadily downstairs, his hangover from the party shrieking “I told you so.” After tripping over a cat or two on the way to the phone, he dialed his new acquaintance. No answer. She's probably at work, he told himself. Yeah, that's probably it since it's 10:30.

  The two Chow ladies and their two Mah Jongg friends were at it as usual, screaming in Chinese and flinging tiles on the board.

  “Mrs. Chow?”

  “What you want, soldier boy? Can't you see we busy?”

  “Sorry, but just in case I get a call, be sure to get the caller's number. Okay.”

  “Sure okay. You think I no can read or write?” Lotus Blossom continued to give priority to the Mah Jongg board, but added, “Your boss call and say come over chop-chop.”

  “When was this?… WHEN WAS THIS?” Mrs. Chow.

  “No need to shout, soldier boy. He call only a couple of hours ago.”

  A wave of nausea began to gather in DeWitt, a combination of the previous evening's heroic drinking and the current fear of the colonel's wrath. No time for breakfast. No time for anything but to beat it over to headquarters a.s.a.p.

  The aide barely contained a snicker as he told the private that the colonel was fuming. “He frequently fumes anyway, but when he's kept waiting… soldier, I wouldn't want to be in your clodhoppers.”

  After knocking on the door and receiving a gruff command to come in, DeWitt saluted. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Oh, is it still morning, private? I guess my watch is slower… almost as slow as you!”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Tell me, soldier, have you ever thought of hara-kiri?”

  DeWitt pondered for a moment. “A few times, sir. But I find myself thinking more often of Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and Hopalong Cassidy, and sometimes even of William S. Hart.”

  A look that mixed disbelief with anger crossed the colonel's face. “No, soldier, I wasn't speaking of the cowboy actor Harry Carey, I was referring to the Japanese custom by which a person who feels dishonored attempts to regain face, so to speak, by plunging a sword or dagger into his entrails.”

  “I bet that hurts a lot.”

  “You betcha. I'm certain it hurts a lot, and that's why I asked if you had ever contemplated it.”

  “No, and I wouldn't want to. When the time comes for the Grim Raper to fetch me, I'd like to be lying in bed with some cutie and a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Have you ever thought of how you'd like to kick the old bucket, sir?”

  “Why, yes, but not before I kicked some ass.”

  “Really? They seem like such innocent animals. Why, if I may ask, would you want to do that. Has an ass ever caused you any problems?”

  “You couldn't believe how much,” the colonel sighed. “All right, DeWitt, enough of this bullshit. Let's get down to business now that you've decided to pay me a visit.

  You may or may not be aware of it—and I'd bet your life that you're not—the military has big plans for building planes for both the Army and Navy to go after those Jap bastards. This, of course, invites spying and sabotage, and we need clever, intelligent, committed people to combat this. Unfortunately, most of them are currently overseas fighting the enemy or sitting on their collective rear ends behind desks brainstorming in Washington. So we don't have much to choose from, but we do have you.

  Now here's what you're going to do, DeWitt. Los Angeles has a number of companies that have or will have received government contracts to produce aircraft and roll them out as quickly as possible. I want you, soldier, to hang around some of them and keep on the qui vive for those who want to throw a wrench into the works. Any questions so far?”

  “Just a couple, sir. I've never been on the qui vive and, frankly, I don't know where it's located. And as for those wrenches you mentioned, would you happen to have a list of what kinds they are?”

  The colonel looked at the ceiling and could be heard questioning if President Roosevelt might consider an exchange of personnel with the Japanese. Not many. Maybe only one.

  “Soldier, get yourself out of my office on the double. My aide has a list of instructions for you. Be here promptly—and I do mean promptly—tomorrow morning at 7:00. There'll be someone in front of the building with a car. We're also giving you a .45 automatic. As a rule, only officers carry side arms, but the brass has made exceptions for those on special assignments, especially when they can be dangerous or even fatal.” The expression on the colonel's face suddenly changed. “And do be careful with the .45. We don't want you hurting yourself, do we?”

  Leaving on the double, DeWitt nearly knocked over the aide, who had his ear to the keyhole. “You know, I didn't know if the colonel actually cared for me, but I can tell now that he's looking out for my well-being. He's quite a guy.”

  The aide went to a desk and fetched a 9'x12' clasp envelope as well as a small cloth sack that, he said, contained the .45 side arm. “And private, be plenty careful with the weapon. Remember the Army saying, 'You're only as good as your gun.' The colonel would be mighty upset if anything ever happened to the gun. One more thing. I wouldn't be so sure that the colonel thinks you're the cat's meow. If you don't come up with something concrete about spies and saboteurs pretty soon, it will be off to the Pacific for you.”

  The aide's warning darkened DeWitt's mood. That evening he did what he had done often in the past: he called his pal Polish Phil.

  “How are they hanging, buddy boy?”

  “They're still hanging, Phil, but I'm afraid my boss might cut them off if I don't find myself a few enemy Japs. Can you think of something?”

  The Polack told his friend that he would give the matter some thought and would get back t
o him.

  Twenty-four hours later DeWitt was listening to “The Shadow” on the Chow's radio when the phone rang, interrupting Lotus Blossom's game of solitaire, at which she was mercilessly cheating. “Hey, soldier boy, it's for you.”

  “Evening, Dick. I've been thinking about your problem and making a few phone calls. There's this former NYPD cop who's now living in Pasadena. His name is Frankie Fusilli, but most of us called him “Itchy Fingers” when he was on the force. He was one tough son of a bitch, but maybe a little bit too tough. He got fired without getting his full pension over a matter of his handling of crime scenes. Almost went on trial, but me and a few other guys pulled a couple of strings, and… well, you know how those things go.”

  “What exactly did he do, Phil, to get into so much trouble?”

  “If you must know, he killed three lousy perps during three separate stakeouts. What really twisted the D.A.'s jockey shorts into knots was that these perps all took it in the back.” Phil chuckled. “You didn't want to turn your back on Frankie, if you were looking forward to another hot meal, hot broad, and long, hot piss. But whatever faults he had—if you want to call them faults—he was the sort of guy who got the job done, and if you need to find a Jap bastard or two, he just might be able to help you.”

  DeWitt took Frankie Fusilli's telephone number, thanked Phil, and promised to keep him informed.

  Chapter 14

  “Whoever it is, it better be good,” said a groggy Itchy Fingers. “You know what time it is?”

  “It's 10:15 a.m., Mr. Fusilli. My name is DeWitt, Dick DeWitt, and I'm good friends with Phil Mazurki, who told me to give you a ring.”

  “You're friends with the Polack, eh? Well, then you can call me anytime day or night. I owe the old bastard big time. So what can I do for you, chum?”

  After listening to DeWitt briefly state his problem, Fusilli suggested a late lunch. He would pick him up where he was boarding around 1:00. They would find a place to eat, get to know one another, and hammer out a plan of action.

  “Sorry, DeWitt, the traffic is becoming a royal pain in the butt,” offered Fusilli, who arrived half an hour later than anticipated. “Know a greasy spoon around here for lunch?

  Sammy Burpp was sitting behind the cash register when they arrived. “Hey, Mr. DeWitt, long time no see. You been sick, or you been too busy selling rice?

  Fusilli did a double take and was about to ask Burpp what he was talking about.

  “No such luck, Sammy,” DeWitt quickly answered. “I've been making a lot of calls and visits, and now I've even got my associate, Mr. Fusilli, to help with the sales.”

  Don't worry, Mr. DeWitt, this year's Chinese New Year sign says that all will be okay, number one, good for everything. Meanwhile we fix you good lunch. Ping Pong will bring you menu.”

  Fusilli did another double take just as his companion was taking him by the elbow and leading him to a table at the rear of the diner.

  Ping Pong ambled over to the table, dropped two menus, grunted, and ambled away. After the two men had decided, DeWitt motioned to the waitress that they were ready to order. By the time Ping Pong arrived, they were more than ready. Fusilli asked for chop suey; DeWitt asked for a cheeseburger smothered with plenty of mayonnaise. Before their lunch came nearly a half an hour later and while they were wolfing it down, DeWitt gave the retired cop the skinny.

  “I'm best at giving guys a going over—you know, using my fists or a good old-fashioned knuckle-duster—but I also am good at nosing around. I'll tell you, DeWitt, let me do some snooping and get back to you. I'm all set for cash right now and have some time on my hands. And by the way, do you need a heater? I got a few of them and would be happy to loan you one should you find yourself in need. Wouldn't mind plugging a few Nips myself. Would you?

  The former gumshoe thanked the former cop but informed him that the Army had recently supplied him with a rod. DeWitt made a feeble gesture to pick up the check, but Fusilli insisted that this one was on him. “You're a friend of the Polack, and I owe him.” DeWitt didn't quibble.

  Possessing no leads and a limited imagination, DeWitt spent the next few days passively waiting for Fusilli to call. But he wasted no time in phoning Cassie Cassidy and inviting her for a night on the town. Cassie, dressed in classy evening wear, seemed none too pleased when he parked the car in front of the Brookdale Cafeteria. “Ever been to this joint?” he asked. “They serve really swell chow here. It's a pain in the fanny to have to stand in line, but if you push and shove the way we New Yorkers do, you'll manage real nice.”

  Cassie assured him that all would be fine and apologized profusely as she stepped on his sneakers. “I guess I got caught up in the bright lights and excitement of it all,” she explained.

  Business was brisk in the cafeteria at this peak hour, and DeWitt had all he could do to shoulder and elbow Chrissie and himself to the front of the line. A few people complained, especially when the gumshoe gave them the bird; more noted how overdressed Chrissie was.

  The cafeteria offered a variety of food, as DeWitt had promised. To convince Chrissie of the wisdom of his choice of an excellent place to dine, he offered to share his main dish of hash mixed with tuna fish and surmounted by a dill pickle and chopped onions. Chagrined when she excused herself to find a bathroom, he figured it wasn't worth the effort to repeat his overture.

  Having promised a night on the town, DeWitt suggested that a movie would be in order. “There's a great one playing not far from you. I hope you haven't seen Pinocchio yet. I keep missing it, and I'm dying to see it.”

  Chrissie politely declined on grounds that she was allergic to men who had long noses and lied. “How about a drink instead?” she queried.

  DeWitt stopped rubbing his nose and quickly agreed. I guess Chrissie has the hots for me, he told himself.

  The small bar that Chrissie suggested was only a remove from her apartment, a fact that further convinced the gumshoe of Chrissie's regard for him. A drink or two, back to her place, and who knows?

  One drink became two, two became three. This dame can keep up with me, he told himself. He was wrong. By the fourth drink he admitted that she could go further.

  “Come on, handsome,” she cooed, “stop handing me all this crap about selling rice. I know, and you know, that you couldn't sell a drink to an Irishman on St. Paddy's day. So tell little Cassie what exactly you are doing here in the City of Angels.”

  DeWitt giggled. “Cassie, you hard-drinking, gorgeous, woman, I'd like to tell you, but it's a great big cigarette… I mean it's a great big secret and Uncle Sam wouldn't want me to tell anyone, even you. See what I mean? All I can say is that our Uncle needs my help in keeping an eye on the enemy. Got it? But mum's the word. Loose ships sink loose slips, they say, and I don't want to be responsible for any loose slips.”

  “I hear you loud and clear, Dick sweetie. Now I think we'd better call it a night. I don't know about you, but I got a full schedule tomorrow.”

  DeWitt paid the check and staggered to the door, arm in arm with Cassie. He couldn't remember where he had parked the car, but she did and reminded him of where she lived.

  “Can I come upstairs?”

  “Honey, you need to go home tonight. Maybe another time.” She pecked him on the cheek and told him to drive carefully and sell a ton of rice.

  “So long, Hopalong. See you real soon I hope.” Five hours later DeWitt was still sleeping in his car when a cop banged on the window and told him to get moving.

  Two days later, his hangover scarcely a thing of the past, DeWitt went to the colonel's office in order to lie about making progress. Telling him about Fusilli was out of the question, as was recounting his date with Cassie Cassidy. He was prepared for the worst but was relieved to learn from the aide that the Colonel was indisposed and couldn't see him. The piercing shrieks coming from his office convinced DeWitt that the colonel was much too ill to see him. “Tell the colonel that I'm making real progress and tell him that I hope he feels better fr
om whatever is ailing him.”

  “I'm sure he'll be glad to hear it,” snickered the aide.

  Chapter 15

  “You got a call, soldier boy,” announced Mrs. Chow.

  “Hello? This is DeWitt.”

  “And this is Fusilli. How are you doing, pal? I got some news for you. You ever run into a Kraut named Count Ulrich Ditter von Puffendorff? Yeah? Well he ain't what he seems. He's no more a count than my Uncle Pasquale, who's probably counting the years he still has to serve in Sing Sing. This supposed count was no war hero, believe me. He got himself cashiered from the German Army and nearly court-martialed. Money he's got, however. He made a ton on the black market after the war and another ton when the German government devalued the reichsmark in 1923. Discretion beat out greed when the authorities began breathing down his neck, and the scumbag fled the country soon thereafter.”

  “So what's he doing in L.A.?”

  “Good question. I haven't found out why he came here or when. But I did learn that he bought a big mansion, even as Hollywood big ones go, and has been passing himself off as a war hero and count ever since. The phony bastard has even been spreading the word that he hates the Nazis as much as those Jew directors like Fritz Lang and Billy Wilder who had to flee Germany. Rumor has it that more than a few guests who attend his posh soirees are pro-Axis and that he himself is not a small fry either. So what do you think? Did I do good or did I do good?”

  “I can't believe how good you've done, Frankie. You got a nose like a bloodhound. Now what do we do?”

  “What do you mean 'we'? I snooped around like I said I would, but I never promised to get more involved. I risked my life as a New York City cop, and look what the Department did to me. No sir, I did my job.”

  “But you're a good, one hundred percent American, Frankie. Why don't you be like me? I could have sat at home earning a nice living as one of New York's best private eyes, but, no, I told myself that my Uncle Sam needed me badly, and I was one of the first to enroll. I'd lay my life down gladly for my country because it's the right thing to do.”