Amerikan Eagle

Up on the second floor, he saw a chilling sight: the city marshal sitting at Sam’s desk. Harold Hanson was leaning back, hands across his plump belly, looking up at him from behind horn-rimmed glasses. Mrs. Walton was at her desk, lips thin, no doubt distressed at seeing the order of the ages upended by the city marshal sitting at a mere inspector’s desk.

“Inspector Miller,” Hanson said. “There’s a gentleman from the FBI in my office, along with another… gentleman. They’re here to see you.”

“About what, sir?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is one of Hoover’s bright boys, with another bright boy accompanying him, are here. You’re going to use my office, talk to them, cooperate, and when they depart, I expect a full report.”

A voice inside him started to nag. Do it now, it said. Tell the marshal about your brother. Don’t try to cover it up. Give up Tony and you can salvage your career, your life, your future. You can tell the FBI you were surprised last night, which is why you didn’t give up Tony earlier. Now, the voice said, more insistent. Give him up now and maybe they won’t dig more, find out about the Underground Railroad station running out of your basement, and all will be good, and—

“I understand what you want, sir,” Sam said.

“Good. Now get your ass in there and do what you have to do so I can have my goddamn office back.”

Sam hesitated. Could he trust Hanson to contact Sarah, tell her to grab the boy and leave town before the FBI shipped them off to Utah in a boxcar? And if he asked his boss to do something like that, wasn’t he admitting he was guilty and—

Could he trust Hanson? Or anyone?

Sam walked to the door. He didn’t bother knocking. He just opened it and went in, keeping his head high.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

He entered the marshal’s office into a dense fugue of cigarette smoke. One of the visitors was sitting in Hanson’s chair. He was a ruddy-faced, large-framed man with dark wavy hair. He had on a loud gray and white pin- striped suit that said flashy big city to Sam, and his black wide-brimmed hat was on the marshal’s desk. Sitting in one of the captain’s chairs was a second man. His suit was plain dark gray, and his blond hair was fine and closely trimmed. Unblinking light blue eyes looked out from behind round wire-rimmed glasses. His own black hat was in his lap.

“Inspector Miller?” asked the man in the pin-striped suit. He stood up from Hanson’s leather chair, holding out a hand.

“That’s right,” Sam replied, feeling the strong grip as he shook the man’s hand.

“Special Agent Jack LaCouture, FBI, assigned to the Boston office.” LaCouture’s voice was Southern—no doubt Louisianan, for the Kingfish made sure a lot of his boys were sprinkled throughout the federal government.

“Glad to meet you,” Sam said, knowing his tone of voice was expressing just the opposite. LaCouture motioned to his companion, who stood up. Sam froze, knowing the mild-looking guy, who resembled a grocery clerk or something equally bland, must be with the labor camp bureau of the Department of the Interior. In a very few seconds, he knew, everything was going to the shits.

So be it, he thought.

But Tony wasn’t mentioned at all. Instead, the FBI man said, “Allow me to introduce my traveling companion. Hans Groebke, from the German consulate in Boston.”

Groebke gave a brisk nod, and his hand was cool as Sam did the usual grip-and-release. Sam made out the faint scent of cologne.

“A pleasure,” the German said in a thick accent, and he turned to LaCouture and rattled off something quick in German. LaCouture listened and said to Sam, “Hans says he’s glad to make your acquaintance and hopes you will be able to assist him in this matter. He also apologizes for his rough English. He doesn’t sprechen the King’s language that well, you know?”

They all sat down and Sam said, “What kind of matter are you interested in?”

LaCouture answered, “The dead man by your railroad tracks the other night. We’d like to know how your investigation is proceeding.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, feeling his head spin: the body, not Tony, not the Underground Railroad, that was why the FBI was here! “Why is the German consulate concerned about a dead man?”

LaCouture smiled, revealing firm and white teeth. “First of all, it appears your body may be that of a German citizen, perhaps here illegally. Second, the German consulate doesn’t give a crap about the body. But Herr Groebke does, as a member of the Geheime Staatspolizei.”

“The Geheime… I’m sorry, what’s that again?”

“Geheime Staatspolizei,” LaCouture repeated patiently. “The Secret State Police. More commonly known as the Gestapo. Hans is stationed at the Boston consulate.”

How many lurid newspaper stories had Sam read and potboiler movies had he seen, all about the sinister Gestapo in Berlin and Vienna and Paris and London, keeping track of illegals, Jews, anybody opposed to the Nazi regime? Dark stories of torture, of the midnight knock on the door, to be dragged out of your home and never seen again. The Gestapo had replaced the bogeyman to scare little boys and girls at night.

But Groebke looked like an accountant. Nothing like the ten-foot monster in a black leather trench coat, slaughtering innocents across a half-dozen occupied countries in Europe.

Sam said, “I didn’t know the Gestapo were here in the States.”

“Sure,” LaCouture said. “All the embassies and consulates have the Gestapo kicking around. The long arm of Hitler reaches lots of places, and there’s a fair number of Germans who live here. The Gestapo likes to keep their eyes on everything, make sure they’re good little Germans, even in the States.”

Groebke said something in German to the FBI man, and LaCouture snapped something back. “Sorry, Inspector. Hans is a bit impatient. Krauts like everything to be neat and tidy and all official. So, let’s cut to the chase: Did you have a body pop up here two days ago?”

“Yes, we did. An old man, no identification. A homicide. Found near railroad tracks down by a cove off the harbor.”

“Any suspects?”

“No,” Sam said.

“Did he have any luggage with him?” LaCouture asked.

“No.”

“Any papers or photographs?”

“Nothing.”

LaCouture translated the last few answers for the German. Then he said, “How was the body found?”

“A hobo walking the tracks found it. He also thought he saw someone in the area who might be of interest, but I haven’t been able to recontact him.”

LaCouture rattled off another string of German and then said, “Go on.”

Sam looked at the blank, smooth face of the German and thought, Sure, an accountant, a bank accountant who could toss a family from their home for one late mortgage payment without blinking an eye.

He said, “That’s about it. No other witnesses, not much information. I think the body—”

LaCouture interrupted. “I’m sure you were quite thorough. But from this moment forward, this matter is now under the jurisdiction of the FBI. All right, Detective?”

“Inspector,” Sam corrected dryly. “My position within the department is inspector, not detective.”

“My apologies, Inspector.” The FBI guy smilied without a trace of remorse. “We’ll be talking to your local medical examiner later today, and we want a copy of your report.”

“You’ll get what you want,” Sam said, “but I’d like to know why you’re so interested in this body. And how did you find out about it?”