“You sent a telex to the state police,” LaCouture said. “We get copies of all those kinds of telexes. The Germans had been looking for this particular character for reasons they’ve kept to themselves.”
“So you can’t say who he is and why he was here illegally?”
“Even if I could, I won’t, because it’s now none of your business,” LaCouture said. “Because we believe the body is that of a German illegal, it’s a diplomatic matter, and because the investigating arm of the German government is the Gestapo, it’s a Gestapo matter. And because we don’t like the Gestapo traipsing across our fair land without an escort, it’s also an FBI matter. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite clear, but I still want to know—”
LaCouture folded his large hands, and Sam saw the man’s nails gleamed with polish. “You seem to be a curious man. So am I. And I’m curious how a patrol sergeant like you became a police inspector while your older brother is serving a six-year sentence in a labor camp. A labor camp in New York, correct? The one near Fort Drum? The Iroquois camp?”
The German looked like he was enjoying seeing the two Americans sparring. Sam felt his mouth go dry. So Tony’s name was going to come up after all. “Yes,” Sam said. “My brother is serving a six-year sentence. For organizing a union. Used to be a time when that wasn’t illegal.”
“There was a time when booze was legal, became illegal, and then became legal again. Who the hell can keep track nowadays?” LaCouture chuckled.
Sam looked at the German and said, “You’ll get my report. I’ll have Mrs. Walton type up a copy, should be ready in under an hour. But I still want to know something.”
“I don’t care what you want to know, I don’t have anything more to say to you.”
“The question’s not for you,” Sam said. “It’s for the Gestapo, if that’s all right.”
LaCouture glanced at Groebke. Then he said, “Go ahead, Inspector. But make it snappy.”
Sam said, “This man was half starved. And there were numbers tattooed on his wrist. The numerals nine- one-one-two-eight-three. Can he explain that?”
LaCouture spoke a sentence or two to the German, who nodded in comprehension. Groebke said something slow and definite, and LaCouture told Sam, “He said he doesn’t know the man’s eating habits. As to the tattoo, perhaps someday you will be in Berlin, at Gestapo headquarters at Eight Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, and then he may tell you. But not here, and not now.”
“Not much of an answer,” Sam remarked.
LaCouture motioned to the German, stood up, and grabbed his hat. “Only one you’re going to get today. Now, this has been cheerful and all that, but you mind not wasting our fucking time any longer?”
Sam could feel his face burning. “No. I don’t mind.”
The German made a short bow. “Herr Inspector,
“Yeah. So long.”
After they left, Marshal Hanson came right in and reclaimed his seat with a look of distaste that somebody else could have occupied his place of honor and polluted his office with cigarette smoke. He folded his hands and said, “Well?”
“The FBI guy’s name is LaCouture. His buddy there is from the Gestapo. Groebke. They say the body from the other night was a German illegal.”
“So they’ve taken the case from you. Now a federal matter. Good.”
“Good?” Sam asked. “What’s good about it? They waltzed right in here and took my case away… a homicide! You know how the FBI operates. We’re never going to hear anything more about it.”
“We’re cooperating,” Hanson said gruffly. “Which is the smart thing to do, so we don’t piss off the wrong people and the FBI and Long’s Legionnaires leave us alone. I know this was your first homicide, and you wanted to see it through. But I also know what your caseload is like. If you spend more time on your caseload and less time worrying about a matter now belonging to the Germans and the feds, then I’ll be happy, the people of Portsmouth will be happy, and so will the police commission. Got it?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Fine. Now, about the other night. I was glad to see you at the Party meeting. Have you thought about what I said—about becoming more active?”
“No, I really haven’t. With this John Doe investigation, I haven’t considered it much.”
“Do you think I was joking, Sam? This is no longer a request. Soon I’ll be putting in your name for the county steering committee. There’s a vote, but it’s just a formality. And I expect a return favor from you concerning your father-in-law.”
Sam felt as if the day and everything else were slipping away from him; he thought about what Sean had said. Nats versus Staties. “But the mayor, he’s said something similar about me—”
“Divided loyalties, Sam? Or do I have to remind you who signs your time sheet?”
“No, you don’t have to remind me.”
“I didn’t think I’d have to,” Hanson said, looking triumphant. “What’s ahead for you?”
“I told the FBI they could have copies of my reports later today. And that Mrs. Walton would type them up for them.”
Now Hanson didn’t look happy. “Since when you do start making commitments for my secretary?”
Sam stood up and pushed the chair back toward the desk. The legs squeaked gratingly against the wooden planks. “Since you told me to cooperate, that’s when,” Sam replied.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sam spent a few minutes at his desk, staring at the piles of paperwork. Then, restless and irritable, he headed for the stairs. Mrs. Walton—frowning because of the extra typing—called, “Inspector?”
“Off for a walk,” he called back.
She smirked. “A walk.”
“Sure. Put it in your log. W-A-L-K. A walk.”
He went down the wooden stairs two at a time, through the lobby, and then outside. It was cloudy, and the salt smell from the harbor was strong.
His very first homicide, taken away from him. And not by the state police; no, by Hoover’s own SS, the FBI. With the assistance of the Gestapo. And the assistance of his boss. Who would have thought?
Dammit.
He started walking away from the police station, heading south. Before him, a small gang of truant boys were huddling around something in the gutter. When they saw him approach, they looked up but kept at work, each holding a paper sack. Cig boys, picking up discarded cigarette butts to strip out the tobacco and then roll their own, selling them for a penny apiece on the streets.
Not much of a crime, but still.
“Beat it, guys,” Sam said. “You’re blocking traffic.”
They scattered, but one boy with a cloth cap and patched jacket and black facial hair sprouting through his pimples said, “Screw you, bud,” and lashed out with a fist.
Something struck Sam’s right wrist. He grabbed at his arm and stepped back, but by the time he reached for his revolver, the boys were gone, racing down a trash-strewn alleyway. He looked at his wrist. Part of the coat sleeve was torn; the little thug had sliced at him with a knife! He pushed the tattered threads together and looked down the empty alleyway, holding his arm.
A few feet in another direction… could have been buried in his chest.
He lowered his arms, kept on walking. He couldn’t do anything about those little bastards. Too much was going on. Damn Tony for breaking out and making everything even more dangerous. To add to the fun, he had been drafted twice this week: for the state National Guard, and now the county steering committee for the Party. What would Larry Young do when he heard his political rival was sponsoring his son-in-law?
Crap. Where the hell was he going?
