The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“So I heard.”

“Really? So quickly?”

“Word spreads fast around here. You know that New York is just a small town. Maybe the biggest one in this hemisphere, but it’s still a small town at heart. Western Union messenger, wasn’t he?”

“Postal Telegraph, and he was a she.”

Maccabee said, “Oh.” He drew it out into two long syllables.

“And the victim survived?”

Winslow nodded.

“That’s nice. Always happy to hear of a victim coming through alive. He — I mean she — going to be all right?”

“I think so.”

There was a momentary silence as a young couple, out to enjoy the sunny afternoon despite its cold, paused to look up at Roscoe Conkling.

Once they walked on, Maccabee said, “Still, I imagine this would be police business. Does Lieutenant Burke know about it?”

Winslow said, “He does. I’m sure his excellent men will pursue the matter appropriately. It’s the message that the girl was trying to deliver to Foxx that matters to us.”

“Don’t tell me. The message mysteriously disappeared and the sweet girl messenger has no idea who took it or where it went.”

“Exactly.”

“And you want me to find it.”

“No. We have the message. Postal Telegraph had a copy in their files. Foxx has it now.” From memory he summarized the Sexton Blake “Dear Cousin” night letter.

“And so …?”

“I want you to find Heinrich Konrad, aka Bedrich Smetana. Do you think you can do that?”

“What, find one bad Czech in the City of New York? How long do I have to locate this character? And how much is your ever-generous employer willing to pay for my services?”

“Oh, Jake. Wait a minute.” A teenaged girl riding a bright red Schwinn and holding the leash of a black Labrador retriever pedalled past.

“Okay. We need Konrad as fast as we can get him. And you know that Foxx has never quarrelled with you over a bill.”

Jacob Maccabee stood up, slipped the fat copy of Mein Kampf into a copious overcoat pocket, and folded his hands behind his back. “Andy, let’s walk.”

They started along the tarmac path. The early snow had melted off the macadam but it remained on the grassy areas and the trees that surrounded the pathways. The effect was a chiaroscuro landscape punctuated by marble plinths bearing statues of half-forgotten statesmen.

“This Konrad fellow is an unpleasant individual, Andy. You know, some of us have more reason to follow events in Europe than others. I’ve seen pictures of Konrad in his Gauleiter’s uniform. I’ve seen the look in his eye.”

He paused, looking up at a statue of Chester Alan Arthur, a rotund former President. “But why is Foxx after this guy? Isn’t that the feds’ business? I imagine J. Edgar Hoover would be interested, to put it mildly.”

Winslow nodded. They started walking again. “I’m not sure what kind of passport Konrad is using now, since the powers sliced up Czechoslovakia and started giving away the pieces. Foxx was born there, you know — in what would become Czechoslovakia, while that country existed. He’s pretty cagey about the details, although there has to be an English branch of the family. Foxx says that Sexton Blake is his cousin, and another famous English sleuth is in his family tree. But he does admit that he was born in Bohemia and could even claim that citizenship if he ever wanted to.”

A breeze came sweeping through the park and a shower of snowflakes dropped from an elm tree on to Winslow and Maccabee.

“Konrad could be a citizen of — what do they call it since the treaty? — the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia. Or he could just have decided to call himself a German. It hardly matters now, Jake, does it?”

Their conversation was interrupted by a thump. A squirrel, losing its grip on a wind-swept tree limb, had fallen on to the footpath not ten yards from Winslow and Maccabee. The squirrel shook its head in comical imitation of a stunned man, looked around — could a squirrel be embarrassed? — and scampered up a nearby oak.

“Poor creature,” Maccabee grinned. “Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to be happily curled up inside a hollow tree by now?” Then to Winslow, “You mean this is personal?”

Winslow nodded. “I know Caligula Foxx about as well as any living person, I think. After all, I work for him, I live in his house, we dine together. On those rare occasions that he’s willing to leave West Adams, he likes me to drive the Packard. I’ve offered to take him in my Auburn but that’s beneath him, ‘don’t you know’.”

He paused, then added, “Anyway, he still has feelings for the land of his birth. I’m certain of that. He feels that Konrad has sold out their mutual homeland to the Nazis and he’s determined to find out what Konrad is doing in the US. And to stop him!”

Jacob Maccabee exhaled, his warm breath turning white in the frosty air. “I’ll get on to it, Andy. I’ll get some men working on it today. I’ll call a couple of pals on the daily rags and get photos of Konrad. You know, my pal Barney Hopkins got hired away from the Brooklyn Eagle; he’s working for the Herald-Trib now. Or maybe Del Marston at the World-Telly. Well, don’t you worry about that. I’ll get photos made and send some over to you at West Adams.”

The men shook hands. As they parted, Winslow said, “Remember, he entered the US under a false name. I don’t think he’d be calling himself Konrad.”

Maccabee said, “Got it. Relax, pal. Bedrich Smetana. Good Czech name.”

Maccabee headed east from the park; Winslow, west.

Back at West Adams Place Andy Winslow peered into the garage and noted that the Postal Telegraph messenger’s bicycle had been removed. Apparently Lieutenant Burke’s men could do something useful. Andy let himself in, wiped the snow from his shoes, and found Caligula Foxx in the parlour seated before a roaring fire. A Steinway grand piano, its size proportionate to Caligula Foxx’s great bulk, was situated well away from the fireplace. A snifter of cognac stood at Foxx’s elbow. The stack of Sunday papers had migrated from his down-filled comforter to his more than ample lap.

Winslow never ceased to be amazed at Foxx’s ability to absorb the content of every paper from the staid Times and Post, to the wild tabloids — one of which was uppermost on Foxx’s lap. It was the Sunday Mirror. A huge photo of a burning building filled most of the front page, a headline announcing an explosion and fire at a synagogue on Essex Street.

Foxx turned his massive head to greet his assistant. “Ah, Andy. How went it with Mr Maccabee?”

Winslow gave him a report on his meeting with the investigator. “I’ll look forward to seeing the photos of this bozo,” he concluded.

“A nasty piece of work. I have not previously mentioned that I crossed paths with Pan Konrad — I suppose he would prefer Herr Konrad now — towards the end of the Great War. He was serving in Emperor Franz Josef’s army at the time. It was then that I got to know him quite well. One’s loyalties are often strained by the exigencies of war.” Fox rubbed his massive forehead contemplatively. “And of politics,” he added.

Uninvited, Andy sank into a chair facing Foxx. “I didn’t know you’d served in the war.”

Foxx removed the papers from his lap and set them aside. He took a sip of brandy. “Would you like some, Andy? No? Well, not to bore you with excessive detail, but I will say that I did not serve in the war in an official capacity. Or, well, perhaps not exactly in the capacity in which I seemed to serve.” He grinned. “I hope that is not too convoluted an explanation for you.”

Winslow ignored the dig. “But unofficially?”

Foxx smiled. “Yes. I like to think that my modest talents were not entirely wasted. I was a mere lad, you understand. And Pan Konrad was another. We are of an age, you know. In fact, I believe that at one time we competed against each other in schoolboy athletic contests. I disliked Konrad even then. When the war broke out — that was the summer of ’14, of course — I was ready to enlist and offer my services to Franz