The Hunt

Albert tobacco, loves movies and the ladies, and hasn’t a trace of an accent. I’ll tell you something else, this guy doesn’t shake. He’s one cool operator. He shacked up with Louise Scoby knowing the C-men were on their way to Drew City. And he likes to kill people, Mr. Smith. He shacked up with Louise Scoby for months, then broke her neck and dumped her in the river like that he snapped his fingers sharply “. . . to set up an alibi. He killed two men and blinded another one because they saw him and might tie him back to Fred Dempsey in Drew City. I’m beginning to understand this guy, Mr. Smith. I’m beginning to know how he thinks and how he operates.”

“If what you say is true, he’s more dangerous than we anticipated.”

“I never doubted that for a moment.”

Keegan took a list of names from his pocket.

“I’ve got twelve names for you. I believe one of them is our German sleeper agent. All of them were born in Erie, Pennsylvania, between 1890 and 1910. If I’m right, he applied for two passports in May 1933, one under the name Fred Dempsey, the other under one of those names on that list. He’d want to be able to get to Europe, to be able to escape in case something else happened.”

He leaned across the table, his eyes alive with excitement.

“If I can get a look at his passport application, I’ll know what he looks like and possibly where he lives now.”

“Doesn’t it seem likely he’s changed identities again since then?”

“Why? He has no idea we’re on to him. If he’s settled in some place, like he was in Drew City, why would he change? The more accepted he is, the safer he is.”

“That’s assuming Dempsey was your man.”

“He’s got to be.”

“But supposing you’re wrong, Mr. Keegan?”

“Then I’m beat,” Keegan said. “But I don’t believe I am. I’m right about Dempsey, Mr. Smith, and if any of those twelve names matches up to a passport application, we got our man.”

“That kind of information is highly confidential. This is not an easy task.”

“C’mon,” Keegan said. “Nothing’s too tough for the world’s greatest dog robber.”

Smith sighed. He recognized cajolery and flattery—but he was not immune to it. He toyed with the list for a few moments and shrugged.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Keegan and Dryman checked into the Mayflower to await the result of Mr. Smith’s investigation. Two days later, Smith met Keegan in the back room of the Regal restaurant a few blocks from the Capitol.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I had to drive all over the city to dump the twins.”

“What’s the latest news?”

“The whole city’s in an uproar. Everybody expects it’s just a matter of days before Hitler attacks Poland. Neville Chamberlain’s ‘peace in our time’ treaty wasn’t worth a lead nickel.”

He put a small brown envelope on the table in front of Keegan.

“You better face facts, Mr. Keegan,” Smith said as Keegan eagerly checked the contents of the envelope. “If this lead doesn’t pan out and Germany attacks Poland, you’re off the case. Hoover’s gone bananas on the subject of security.” He stopped for a moment and nodded toward the contents of the envelope. “And I broke at least three laws to get you that information.”

“Isn’t that what dog robbing is all about?” Keegan answered with his crooked grin.

He read the passport application and his heart picked up a few beats. There was no photograph, but there was an artist’s sketch showing a handsome man with a dark beard, longish hair and spectacles.

“I couldn’t lift the photograph so I had a sketch made for you,” said Smith. “Of course he could have shaved off his beard, changed his hair color . . . Well, what do you think?”

“Could be him,” Keegan said flatly.

He read the passport information:

John Trexler, born Erie, Pa., November 2, 1898.

Passport application: August 12, 1933. Renewed: February 9, 1938.

Occupation: Ski instructor.

Address: Mountain Way, Aspen, Colorado.

He was hiding his excitement. Now he was sure that John Trexler was Fred Dempsey and both were Siebenundzwanzig, the Nazi agent 27. Keegan knew the real John Trexler was born in Erie on that date and had died a week later. This had to be their man.

“Listen, Keegan, don’t go grandstanding on this, okay?” said Smith, and for the first time he showed concern. “If you’re sure he’s your man, take plenty of help.”

“Oh, absolutely, Mr. Smith. Absolutely.”

In the weather room at National Airport, Dryman pored over maps and weather charts, shaking his head as he studied them.

“This could be hairy, Boss, very hairy,” he said, holding a thermal chart next to the sectional map. “We got a front moving in from Canada. They already had their first snowstorm of the season earlier this week. There’s four