December '41, page 20
“More like Only Angels Have Wings. Cary in leather jacket and fedora.”
Carter and Stella glanced at each other. Were they getting closer?
“Oh, I loved his outfit,” said Marylea. “So dashing.”
Stella asked the sisters, “Any idea where he’s dashing to?”
“He told us he was going east … driving,” said Kimberlea. “To see his family.”
“Yes,” added Marylea, “but Carmelita—poor Mrs. Sanchez—she told us she’d seen train schedules and tickets out on his table.”
“Santa Fe schedules,” said Kimberlea. “But he left in his car.”
“What kind of car?” asked Carter.
“A Dodge coupe, ugly pea-soup color,” said Kimberlea.
“I remember the plates,” said Marylea. “76 B 2344.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Carter.
“Even in the old days, we memorized our lines,” said Marylea.
“Helped us convey the emotions.” Kimberlea rolled her eyes.
Marylea said, “I keep my memory sharp so I’ll be ready for my next role. I can certainly remember a license plate I saw hundreds of times.”
Carter took out his notebook and wrote down their info.
The dogs were tugging at the leashes and snuffling around everyone’s feet.
Marylea told them not to be bad little boys or Mommy would spank them.
They kept snuffling, as if they didn’t give a damn what Mommy thought.
Stella told the sisters, “You two were great in Distressed Damsels.”
Marylea batted her eyelashes so hard that one of them fell off, and one of the dogs pounced on it like it was a bug. Marylea cried, “Oh, no! Oh, you bad boy.” Then she crouched and started fishing in the dog’s mouth.
Kimberlea said, “She hasn’t worn those things in years. Now she thinks we’ll have a comeback because of all this. So she’s blinking like a stoplight.”
Marylea stood and wiped the dog spit from the eyelash. “If we have a comeback, it’ll be thanks to my talent. I’m the star. You’re just a featured player.” Then she gave a toss of her locks and led the dogs toward her front door.
Kimberlea said, “I can’t leave her alone for too long. Is there anything else?”
Carter glanced at Stella, hoping she’d come up with a good question, and she did: “If Harold King didn’t look like Cary Grant, who did he look like?”
“I always thought he looked more like Leslie Howard.”
Frank Carter and Stella Madden watched Kimberlea go into her building. Then they turned to each other and said, at the same time, “It’s him.”
* * *
AS THE SUPER CHIEF rolled into Chicago, Vivian watched Harold watching the platform. She didn’t know that picking out plainclothesmen was one of his skills. He was looking for the long overcoat, the bored look that could bore right through you, the cigarette or the stick of gum to heighten the affect.… He said they had to get off the train and out of the station without any police interaction, or they’d be stuck for hours.
Stanley knocked and told them their bags were at the front, but the conductor was asking passengers to stay on board because there might be questions from the police.
Harold said, “I told you what I know, Stanley. And I’ve written a description.” He’d put it into a Santa Fe envelope and left a nonexistent New York address on the back flap.
It read: “At nine thirty last night, I heard an angry argument in Drawing Room D. Mr. Cusack told Miss Drake he wished he hadn’t come on the train with her. I believe Sinclair Cook heard this conversation, too, and should be questioned. Based on my earlier conversation with him in the observation car, also witnessed by Mr. Cook’s wife, Mr. Cusack spoke warmly of the pro-Nazi Bund in Los Angeles. He may now be connecting with Nazi agents in the Midwest. I believe he is armed and dangerous.”
Martin gave Stanley the envelope and pulled another twenty from his pocket.
Stanley looked him square in the eye. “Sorry, sir. Orders. You can’t buy me off with another twenty, no matter how brand-new crisp it is.”
Vivian didn’t have a script, but she improvised. She put her hand on the porter’s arm and said, “Stanley, I’m … I’m with child, as they say.”
Stanley’s eyes dropped involuntarily to her belly.
“Three months, so I’m not showing. But I’m headed east to give Mom the news.”
“That’s fine, ma’am, but—”
When she wasn’t reading Gone with the Wind, Vivian had been studying train schedules in case her “husband” left her in the lurch. “We need to get over to La Salle Street Station to catch the Lake Shore Limited at three o’clock, otherwise, we won’t make New York tomorrow.”
“But, ma’am—”
“My mother is dying, Stanley. I … I only hope I’m not too late to … to—” She dabbed a tissue at her nose. “You see, we just can’t miss that train.”
And Stanley relented. “Well … I guess. You left your address and all on this envelope, so the police will know where to find you, so … well … I guess.”
After the porter left, Harold said to Vivian, “A dying mother … absolute genius.”
No man had ever made her feel better.
* * *
SOON ENOUGH, THEY WERE off the train, hurrying through Dearborn Station, and stepping out into the cold.
Vivian followed Harold past people queuing up for cabs on Polk Street, toward a man wearing a black overcoat and hat. If she hadn’t already been freezing, the sight of Max Diebold would have made her go ice cold.
He looked at her with eyes small and judgmental behind rimless glasses. “I did not expect a wife.”
This puzzled Vivian. Wasn’t “seeing the wife” the whole point? She shot her “husband” a look.
He took her arm and said, “Mr. Diebold, I told you I was married.”
Diebold raised a gloved hand and a black Oldsmobile 98 club sedan pulled round the corner.
Vivian didn’t know what was going on, but she was going along. She had no choice. And as long as she held Harold’s arm, she had no fear.
The driver popped out and popped the trunk. He looked like a younger version of Diebold, rimless glasses, three-piece tweed suit, skinny torso. He opened the back door for Vivian. “Welcome to Chicago, ma’am. I’m Eric Diebold.”
She looked at Harold, as if to ask if it was all right to get in.
He nodded, then turned to the father, who was glaring at her as if he hated the sight of her. Meanwhile the son was sneaking peeks at her, as if she was the best thing he’d ever seen.
At least the car was warm. She pulled down the armrest and sank into plush gray upholstery. Wherever they were going, they’d get there in style.
But Harold and Diebold were still out on the sidewalk having a sharp conversation. Vivian thought she heard Diebold ask, “How much does she know?”
Harold answered in low tones, hard to hear in the echoing noise. It sounded as if he were the boss and Diebold the underling. But when he got into the back seat, he was all smiles and servility. He said to Vivian, “Now, dear, for a nice drive. Isn’t that right, Mr. Diebold?”
“My son is an excellent driver,” said Max Diebold in a voice as cold as the wind whipping down Polk Street.
The son looked into the rearview mirror. “Excellent, especially for pretty ladies.”
“Thank you.” Vivian tried to keep the trepidation out of her voice. She’d learned her lesson about getting into fancy cars with strange men.
* * *
KEVIN CUSACK WAS EATING. More food might help him to forget how stupid he was.
After eggs at the Harvey House restaurant, he’d found a coffee stand, where he scarfed down three doughnuts. Now he’d landed at a lunch counter. It was open to the concourse, so he could watch the world go by. And a radio was playing, so he could hear the news. And sirloin steak topped the menu at thirty-five cents. In Kansas City, you had steak, but he’d just dropped ten bucks on a Union Pacific ticket to Chicago, so he’d eat the cheap stuff instead of the famous Harvey sirloin. People said that in Kansas City, even the lunch-counter steak was choice.
But no amount of food could stop the sign flashing in his head: STUPID. STUPID. STUPID. How could he have been so stupid? That son of a bitch Harry Kellogg had played him, had told him to wait up for the card game, had suggested that he get off in Kansas City and stretch his legs. But why?
He didn’t know. He could barely think. The PA was echoing … the NBC Radio Network announcer was delivering the national news … and the Salvation Army bells were ringing. It might be a week after the greatest disaster in American history, but Christmas was still on its way.
The steak took Kevin’s mind off Kellogg. Charred on the outside, rare on the inside, just the way he liked it.
“And now, the local news,” said the radio voice.
As Kevin popped the rarest slice into his mouth, he barely heard what he was hearing until he heard his own name: “Kansas City police have issued an all-points bulletin for a man identified as Kevin Cusack of Los Angeles.”
Kevin stopped chewing. Then he stopped breathing.
“The suspect is wanted for questioning in the death of Sally Drake, described as his sister but believed to be his traveling paramour.”
Kevin would have thrown up, but the steak caught in his throat.
“Her body was found in her berth when the Super Chief reached Chicago. Police believe the suspect got off in Kansas City. He’s about six feet tall, black hair, blue eyes, wearing a tweed jacket, white shirt, and red necktie. If sighted, inform authorities. He is a known member of the pro-Nazi German American Bund and is wanted for questioning in Los Angeles for murder and assault. He is believed to be armed and dangerous.”
Pro-Nazi? Armed and dangerous? Police?
And here they came—two cops—walking right up to the counter, looking right at him. Kevin just sat there, trying not to choke on the steak.
The waitress said, “Afternoon, fellers.” Then she plunked two coffees down in front of them.
“In other news, the Kansas City Board of Trade will…”
Kevin needed a gulp of coffee to sluice the steak down, but his appetite was gone. He dropped forty-five cents next to his plate and got up without another glance at anyone. Before he realized where he was going, he was on the sidewalk in front of the station. The wind slapped him in the face and reminded him that this was no dream.
The curb captain said, “Do you need a taxi, sir?”
Kevin shook his head. He didn’t need a taxi. He needed a drink. He needed a cigarette. But first, he needed a friend.
So he went back into the station and found a line of phone booths. He dropped into one and slammed the door. In the close quiet, he snapped off his red tie and put up the collar on his sport coat. He was already acting like a fugitive.
Then he dropped a nickel into the phone and gave the operator the FBI number in Los Angeles. Collect, person-to-person, but he decided to use a false name that Carter would recognize: Sam Spade.
No answer. Not surprising on a Sunday morning.
So he dialed the operator again and gave the LAJCC number. He knew that Leon Lewis spent part of Sunday in the office. He might be there now.
A familiar voice accepted the charges. “Kevin? What’s this about an all-points bulletin?”
“You know already?” said Kevin.
“That Detective O’Hara was here. He said you’re wanted for murder.”
“I’m no murderer.”
“I believe you, but if I were your counsel, I’d tell you to turn yourself in.”
“You are my counsel.” Kevin peered onto the concourse. “And there’s cops everywhere.”
“So pick one out and turn yourself in,” said Lewis.
“But the radio’s calling me a Nazi. These local cops might shoot me on sight.”
“My advice would be the same.”
“I’ve read enough scripts to know how easy it is to frame a man.”
“We’ll vouch for you, despite the evidence.”
“Evidence?”
“Someone named Kellogg. He said you discussed Nazi ideology, and he heard an argument in your drawing room last night. O’Hara said the guy made a signed statement. He’s calling it an affidavit, which, of course, it isn’t, but—”
“That Kellogg guy is railroading me, Mr. Lewis. He must have done it.”
“What do you want me to do, then? How can I help?”
“I … I don’t know.” Kevin’s mind was lurching from one terrible possibility to another. And while he heard Lewis’s voice telling him to keep calm, he also heard, Accused of murder, Nazi sympathizer, armed and dangerous.… These were not terms to encourage calm. These were terms to make a man’s throat constrict. These were terms to make a man in a tight phone booth sweat like a stevedore. Kevin said he needed air.
“Call back in half an hour,” said Lewis. “Maybe you’ll see things more clearly.”
* * *
THE LAST GUY CARTER wanted to see when he got to work was Detective Bobby O’Hara. The last guy he wanted to smell, too, all stale cigars and yesterday’s boxer shorts and a few beer farts, too. The last thing he wanted to hear was O’Hara gloating as he told the story.
“We got him this time,” said O’Hara. “We got Cusack.”
“But murder?” Carter tried not to show his shock. “Kevin Cusack?”
“Don’t bullshit me. We know you call him Agent Twenty-Nine.”
“Right. Agent Twenty-Nine, LAJCC. So go talk to Leon Lewis.”
“We did. Typical lawyer, typical Jew. Gave me the runaround. Says he hasn’t heard anything. Says Cusack’s going back to Boston.”
“So call Boston.”
“I would, but Cusack’s in the Midwest, leavin’ bodies everywhere.” O’Hara sat on the edge of Carter’s desk, uninvited. “You got this morning’s victim, the Commie’s daughter. You got Kessler, last seen in a car with Cusack on Monday night. And there’s that screenwriter who filed a complaint after Cusack beat the shit out of him in Musso and Frank’s … with John Wayne as a witness. Cusack’s a very volatile guy, Frank.”
“You want him because he helped put you back on the street.”
“I want him because he’s a fuckin’ Nazi,” said O’Hara.
“He never took payoffs from the Bund, Bobby. You did.”
“He’s a Nazi. He even likes to talk with a funny German accent. That’s what the secretary at Warner Brothers says. And she was there when he smacked her boyfriend around at Musso’s. I’m tellin’ you, Frank, the guy’s bad news … and gettin’ worse.”
Carter just laughed. “He works for the Jews, and the Jews work for us.”
O’Hara waved that off. “The Jews are a pain in the ass, too, thinkin’ they can do our work, makin’ us look bad, rattin’ us out. Who told them to be spies, anyway?”
“I sometimes wonder, Bobby, who do you hate more? Jews or Nazis?”
O’Hara grinned. “I don’t hate anyone. But accordin’ to my guy in K.C.—”
“You have a guy in K.C.?”
“I have guys everywhere. And they’d all love to collar some Hollywood smartass on a killin’ spree. You feds may go struttin’ around, stickin’ your noses wherever you want, but we got jurisdictions, Frank, and Cusack has fled mine.”
Carter asked, “How did the girl die?”
“Strangled. Like a pro.”
That got Carter’s attention. Another strangling. Like the Sanchez woman?
O’Hara said, “C’mon, Frank. Help me out here. I make some calls, you make some calls, we run this guy down and both look good.”
Dick Hood stalked up to Carter’s desk and dropped a folder. “Today’s Krauts.” Hood turned to O’Hara. “And you, get your fat ass off that desk. It’s federal property.”
O’Hara stood and saluted. “Yes, sir.”
“What the hell are you doing in here, anyway, annoying my agents?” asked Hood. “The LAPD is supposed to be helping us, not getting in the way.”
“The uniforms are downstairs. The paddy wagons are ready.” O’Hara headed for the door. “But I have murderers to catch, whether the FBI helps or not.”
Hood said to Carter, “Murderers?”
“He’s after one of our informers,” said Carter.
Hood shook his head. “I never did like that guy.”
Carter followed Hood back to his office. “About our missing shooter—”
Hood put up his hands. “I’m not hearing it, Frank. You don’t have a suspect. You don’t have a crime. You don’t have a potential crime. All you have is a cartridge.”
“I have four murders in L.A., and maybe one more on the Super Chief.”
That seemed to surprise Hood. “The Super Chief?”
“That’s why O’Hara was here. Somebody killed that Sally Drake. They found her body when the train got to Chicago.”
“Sally Drake, the Commie’s daughter … and one of our informers?”
Frank Carter began to formulate a story that might get him more time to investigate. He hated to hang Kevin Cusack out to dry, but he’d do it if he had to, then reel him in when he could. “Our guy fled the jurisdiction Friday night, when the LAPD wanted to talk to him about killing Kessler. I think Kessler knew the guy with the Mauser C96, so maybe our informer did, too, so—”
“But you say he’s in Chicago. Let Chicago handle it.” Hood pointed to the door. “Two interviews in Burbank, two in North Hollywood. Get going.”
Carter knew that arguing was useless. So he went back to his desk, called Stella, and asked her what she was doing.
“Looking at the movie listings. Have you seen The Maltese Falcon?”
“In the flesh. And let me tell you, Sam Spade ain’t so tough.”
“Want to see it this afternoon?”
“Maybe tonight. But in the meantime—”
“You want me to do more of the work that Dick Hood won’t let you do?”
“A lot more.” He filled her in on what he knew about the murder on the Super Chief. “The Jeffries sisters said Harold King had Santa Fe train schedules. Go down to Union Station. See if you can get a list of passengers on that train.”
