be the flag of Vermont, and the standard of Louisiana. “That there’s the camp director’s building. They’ll take care of you in there. Just ’member, okay? Me and Zell, we cooperated.”
As he opened the door, Sam replied, “I’ll remember. You cooperated.”
He went up the wide steps. There was a bulletin board posted beside the doors, but he ignored it. Unlike his visit to Camp Carpenter, he didn’t have to force his way past a waiting sergeant. Another Long’s Legionnaire—this one wearing a leather Sam Browne belt with a holstered pistol—was already waiting for him as he went through the double doors. Offices and desks spread out from behind the lobby, but the man, short as he was, dominated the place. He had thick hair, slicked back and combed to one side, a prominent nose, and an equally prominent five o’clock shadow. Unlike those of his counterparts at the gate, his uniform seemed tailored and well made. Silver stars gleamed on his collar tabs.
“Agent Munson?” His Southern accent was smooth and polished.
“That I am,” Sam said, shaking the man’s hand.
“Apologies for not havin’ things set up for you. The name is Royal LaBayeux, Burdick commandant. I understan’ you’ve got somethin’ you’re investigatin’, so why don’t you come into my office.”
Sam followed him through a set of outer offices with other Long’s Legionnaires at work, filing, typing, talking on the telephone. It looked so formal and clean and efficient, and yet he couldn’t shake the memory of those gaunt men in the striped uniforms, trudging along the dirt road just outside.
The office held leather chairs and a couch, a wet bar and bookshelves. Windows, the drapes closed, dominated one wall. The desk was wide, with intercoms and telephones, and LaBayeux sat down in a black leather chair. On the nearest wall were photographs of President Long. Two of the photographs, Sam noticed, were of the President standing next to a beaming LaBayeux.
“Always willin’ to help out one of Hoover’s boys,” LaBayeux said. “Whaddya got?”
Sam withdrew two photographs. He set them on the polished desk and watched as LaBayeux picked them up and examined them.
“First photo is of a man found dead a few days ago in Portsmouth, New Hampshire,” Sam told him. “The locals didn’t know what to make of it. Further investigation revealed he was traveling under the name of Peter Wotan, which we believe is fake.”
“I see,” LaBayeux said. “And why do you think this… man has anything to do with us?”
Sam pointed to the second photograph. “Tattooed numbers on his wrist. And your facility is the closest one. To see if anyone’s missing, and to find out his real name and how he ended up in Portsmouth.”
LaBayeux picked up the second photograph. “Central Registry couldn’t help you?”
“Excuse me?”
“The Central Registry. They couldn’t trace the tattoo number for you?”
Sam had no idea what the man was asking. “You know how bureaucracies work,” he said, improvising desperately. “First they deny they can do anything. Then they say maybe. And then they say check in next week. But we don’t have time. We have a tattooed dead guy in Portsmouth, where the President and Hitler are going to hold a real important meeting. Dead men raise a lot of questions. We want this cleared up as soon as possible. Which is why I’m here.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” the Southerner said. He let the photo drop and picked up a phone receiver, clicked a button on the intercom. “Jules, come in here a sec, will ya?”
A plump man came in, the blue corduroys tight around his thick legs. LaBayeux passed him the photograph of the tattooed wrist. “Jules, run this number through Records. See if this yid belonged to us, and if not, let’s help out the FBI here and see if y’all can’t get Central Registry on the line to give us a hand. All right, son?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Jules said, backing out of the office and closing the door.
LaBayeux leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head. “You look a bit peaked, Agent Munson. Bet you haven’t eaten or drunk much since you been travelin’.”
“No, I haven’t,” Sam said.
LaBayeux eased the chair forward. “Then come along. The grub here might not be much, but it’s ours.”
Sam couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less than to leave this man’s office, but he got up and followed him outside.
LaBayeux kept up a running commentary as they headed to the mess hall. “Not bad duty, but it can be a chore, ’specially when cold weather socks us in. I’m from the bayous, and let me tell ya, we never have cold weather like this.”
“I’m sure,” Sam said. The buildings were clean, neat, painted white, and looked like they belonged to a military reservation. But always there was the noise, of the machinery thumping, the crane engines whining, and cutting tools biting into stone. Sam could think of dozens of questions he wanted to ask the camp commandant but knew he was walking through a minefield of danger. Any hint of ignorance would raise suspicion, and he could soon be down there in the quarry pit, cutting stone with those skeletal men.
Up ahead was a wide, low building. Sam followed LaBayeux through a set of swinging doors. It was a dining facility with long rows of tables and benches, and LaBayeux spoke to a cook in soiled white pants and T-shirt. Then he took the nearest table, and Sam sat across from him as the camp commandant stretched his legs out. “Like to get out every now and then. This gives me a good excuse. Bet you like getting out of the office every now and then, too, am I right?”
“That’s for sure,” Sam said, desperately wanting to change the subject. “Tell me, how long have you been here?”
LaBayeaux shrugged. “Just over a year ago, when the Department of the Interior seized the quarry and the surrounding lands. I got here with a boxcar of lumber, shingles and nails, and a couple of dozen camp inmates from Nevada and got to work. Muddy, rainy, mosquitoes biting your ass, but we got the place set up ’fore the first train got here. Hell of a thing when that train got here, though, all these people stumbling out, hardly a one of ’em speaking English. Hell of a thing.”
“I guess it was,” Sam agreed.
“Yeah, built this place from nothin’, one of the first set up in the Northeast, and a year later, we’re one of the most productive. So there you go. You been with the feds long?”
“Looks like our meal’s coming.” Sam was happy to see the cook approaching with a tray. “Long enough.”
“So it is. Shit, I hear that some of our guests down there cuttin’ stone are world-class chefs, but who am I to say? ’Sides, with our luck, the cranky bastards might put ground glass in the pots. Lord knows, as it is, we have our share of docs and engineers and other professionals down there. Ah, here we go.”
The plates were heaped with fried ham steak, mashed potatoes, beans, and chunks of white bread. The cook brought mugs of coffee. As they both ate, the camp commandant kept up a running commentary. Sam was thankful that LaBayeux was a man in love with his own voice.
He sliced off a piece of ham and frowned. “Nothin’ like the cookin’ back home. Tried lots to get a real chef up here from Baton Rouge or New Orleans, but they’d rather stay home and stay warm, and who can blame ’em?” LaBayeux put the ham into his mouth. “Mmm, not bad. But what I would give for some shrimp gumbo. Yum, that would be something.”
Sam ate quickly, wanting to get what information he could about Peter Wotan, then get the hell out of this place. The ham steak could have been made by a Waldorf chef, for all he cared; the stuff was practically tasteless. So far, he knew these camps were real, more secret than the run-of-the-mill labor camps, and full of foreigners. But why was Long taking in refugees from Europe? And why were they being worked like this?
The plump Long’s Legionnaire strolled in. He handed a sheet of paper over to LaBayeux and went out again, his corduroy pants making
“Peter Wotan.”
LaBayeux shook his head. “Fake. Real name was Petr Wowenstein. Originally from Munich, transferred to a place over there called Dachau, then sent here nearly two years ago, out to New Mexico. Worked in some sort of research facility, reported missing just over a week ago.” He put the paper down. “Congratulations, Agent Munson. You’ve got your man. Just like the Mounties from up north.”
