from the rear of the room came Heinrich Konrad decked out in full Nazi regalia: swastika armband, jackboots and all. The spotlight followed him to the microphone, then dimmed a little as a second spot hit the oversized portrait of the
Oh, he was good. The flashy uniform, the black hair in its widow’s peak, even the silver-rimmed specs to add just a touch of the intellectual, took away just a bit from the brute in the fancy get-up. The speech was the usual palaver that these gangsters had been peddling. Stuff about the master-race, the New World Order, the brilliance of the
And then he got into the really nasty part. The part about the subhuman vermin who needed to be exterminated. Oh, the Jews. Of course he had it in for the Jews. But the Slavs were not far behind. Caligula Foxx would get a kick out of that. Surely he fell into that category.
Come to think of it, didn’t Konrad, too? Wasn’t he some kind of Czech by birth, same as Caligula Foxx? But, no, he was a German, a true Aryan. Too bad he wasn’t a blue-eyed blond, but then neither was the
For a few minutes Andy Winslow felt himself caught up in the flow of Konrad’s words. The man’s English was fluent if lightly accented, and he painted pictures of a bright future of towering cities and glittering machines — and then he would leap back to his theme of racial purity, and armies marching like robots across a landscape.
They loved it. Oh, they loved it. Konrad could have been elected Mayor if he’d wanted. As soon as he finished, the boobs in the audience went nuts.
When it was all over, Andy Winslow and Rose Palmer made their way out of the meeting-room. The main restaurant downstairs was filled with diners — happy New Yorkers celebrating the holiday season, and out-of- towners come to see the bright lights and the tall buildings of the big city.
A hand came down on Winslow’s shoulder and another on Rose Palmer’s. They turned to see Jacob Maccabee. His tie was askew, his overcoat was buttoned wrong and his homburg was on the back on his head. Winslow was a tall individual and Rose Palmer was proportionately sized. Maccabee grinned at them. He was shorter than either. Before Maccabee could speak, Winslow said, “That was brilliant, Jacob. Crazy brilliant, but brilliant.”
Rose Palmer asked, “Whatever gave you the idea of singing those disgusting songs?”
They had moved away from the restaurant now. The meeting was breaking up and Winslow recognized some of the people from the upstairs room wandering off to find cars or cabs.
“Come on, I don’t want to see my friend the importer again. If he tries once more to sell me a Blaupunkt radio I think I’m gonna punch him in the shnozzola.”
Rose Palmer said, “Where’s Lisalotte?”
Maccabee said, “Did you watch that thug Konrad? Did you see the way he looked at her? I made it a point to light a cigarette for her while he was making his speech, and he spotted her and his eyes lit up. Man, he looked at her the way my cat looks at a slice of raw liver.”
“But where is she now?”
“They’re together. I don’t know where Herr Konrad is staying while he visits our burg. Maybe uptown at the German consulate. Maybe in a hotel or some safe house they’ve got set up. We’ll find that out.”
Winslow fingered the Beretta inside his jacket, snug in his armpit in its holster. “I was tempted,” he said. “A couple of times.” He pulled the automatic partway out of its resting place, far enough to show it to Maccabee. Rose Palmer already knew where he kept it.
“Bad idea, Andy.”
“But … that man … even if Caligula hadn’t said anything about him, you could tell Konrad’s a disgusting animal. And a dangerous one. And you just left her there to go off with him?”
Maccabee made a growling noise deep in his throat. “Fraulein Schmidt is a tough cookie, Rose. Don’t you worry about her. When Konrad finished his rant, all those Nazis started in on
A Checker cab rolled past, throwing up black slush from the gutter. They were nearly at Church Street now.
“Jacob,” Rose persisted, “I still want to know what gave you the idea of singing like that. You weren’t really drunk, were you?”
“Jews don’t get drunk.”
“You don’t know everybody I do.”
“Anyway, it was this.” He laid a finger across the bridge of his nose and swept it down to the tip. “Put me in a lineup with a Chinaman, a Choctaw, and a Hottentot, and ask anybody to pick out the Jew and they’ll get it right on the first try.”
“But — ”
“But nothing, Rose. It’s the old Poe gimmick. Hide in plain sight. If a Jew tried to infiltrate that bunch of Nazis, what’s the obvious thing to do? He’d head for the darkest corner he could find, he’d keep his head down and his trap shut and hope that nobody’d notice him. And do you think that would work? In a pig’s ass — pardon my French, Rose — they’d catch him out in a minute. So I stood up and acted drunk and sang Nazi songs. No Jew would do that; so they just figured I was an unlucky Aryan who managed to pick up a bad gene from a wandering ancestor. So maybe this drunk wasn’t quite one hundred per cent pure Aryan, but he was obviously a good Nazi, so let him be. At least for now.”
Rose wasn’t satisfied. “What now? Do you think Lisalotte will actually spend the night with that — that person?”
“Ah, Rose, Rose, don’t be so squeamish. This isn’t a Mary Roberts Rinehart romance. Lisalotte may not enjoy staying over with that thug but, believe me, it isn’t a fate worse than death. It’s bad, but death is worse. And she’ll get more information from him in a few hours than I could get in a month is my bet.”
He took off his homburg, punched out a dent in it and set it back on his head. He straightened his tie and rebuttoned his coat. He said, “I’m headed for the subway, kiddies. My beloved helpmeet and the offspring are calling to me.”
Winslow said, “Wait, I’ve got my car. We’ll give you a lift.”
“Not necessary. Thanks all the same. I’ll see you atWest Adams Place tomorrow. Lunch-time unless you hear different. I’ll lay a double sawbuck that Schmidt will show up and she’ll bring the bacon with her.”
Maccabee was right. Andy Winslow and Jacob were completing their reports to Caligula Foxx when the brass knocker sounded. Foxx himself wore his usual aquamarine shirt with hand-painted tie and comfortable grey flannel suit. Winslow knew that Reuter was busy in the pantry preparing the day’s luncheon so he answered the door himself. He had already placed a silver tray with coffee urn and cups and pastries on Foxx’s oversized desk.
Lisalotte had changed her outfit to a stylish toque hat of forest green and a matching winter coat. In the foyer she doffed the coat to reveal a dark grey dress set off with mild yellow trim. To Andy Winslow she looked simultaneously weary and energized, as if she had followed a hard night with a brief rest and a refreshing shower.
Ever courtly, Foxx rose and took Lisalotte’s hand. He escorted her to a seat and poured coffee for her. There was a low table beside her chair and she placed the cup and saucer on it carefully.
“I am no blushing schoolgirl,” Lisalotte announced, “but, in all my life and all the men I have had dealings with, no one comes close to that beast. I just hope the filth and the stink of him is off me.” She held her hands before her and studied them. She exhaled.
“He is staying in a hotel in Yorktown. The Rotfrauhaus on Eighty-Sixth Street. He is registered under the name of Antonin Dvorak.”
Caligula Foxx burst into laughter. His belly shook with merriment. “Oh, that is too good, too good, Lisalotte. That alone makes my day, and it’s hardly mid-morning yet.”
Andy Winslow said, “I don’t get it, Caligula. What’s so special about that name?”
