The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“Why, Herr Konrad entered this country under the name Bedrich Smetana. My cousin Sexton Blake warned me of that. I don’t imagine a person whose musical tastes are as — shall we say, as limited as your own — would get the joke. Nor the punch line of becoming Antonin Dvorak once he’d arrived in New York. Oh no, Herr Konrad is a despicable individual, but he is neither stupid nor ignorant.”

He leaned forward, studying the assortment of pastries Reuter had provided. He selected one and transferred it to a Dalton dish, cream-coloured with maroon-deckled trim, circled in gold. He sliced a wedge-shaped morsel from the pastry and popped it in his mouth, consuming it with obvious pleasure.

He turned to Lisalotte Schmidt. “You have my gratitude, my dear. You have done a greater service, I imagine, than you realize. But now we need to know what information you gathered from Herr Konrad-Smetana-Dvorak. Why is he in this country? Surely not just to address a room full of ne’er-do-wells and malcontented bully-boys.”

“He is going to Long Island, to the village of Carrolton Beach. Do you know that place? I do not, Mr Foxx.”

Foxx nodded. “I know the place. Yes. Go on.”

“There is an aeroplane factory there. They are developing a new kind of aeroplane for the government. I do not know the details, but Konrad says Hitler wants it for his own forces. He says that Hermann Goering is eager to see the plane, to see its plans, and to build a copy of it for the Fuhrer.”

She paused to down a heavy draught of coffee, wiped her lips with a linen napkin, and resumed.

“He has a spy in the aeroplane factory. He is going to see him tomorrow, to get a set of blueprints from him and take them back to Germany.”

Foxx steepled his fingers on his chest. “I don’t suppose you know his spy’s name?”

“He said it was Richard Strauss.” She gave the name its proper pronunciation. Reek- hardt.

Foxx shot a look at Jacob Maccabee. “Well, Jake, what can you add to that?”

“Only aircraft factory any where near Carrolton is Sapphire-MacNeese. Good company.”

“Connections?”

“Mr Foxx — how long have you known me? Of course!”

Foxx sliced another wedge of pastry. For a man of his enormous appetite he was a fastidious eater. He nodded to Maccabee, signalling him to continue.

“Aaron Lieberman. Chief designer there. Reports directly to Carter MacNeese. MacNeese bounces between Long Island and their California plant. Flies his own plane every time he wants to hit the other coast. Seems to me it would be a long commute, but who am I to say?”

Foxx pursed his lips. “Tell me about this Lieberman.”

“We grew up in Brownsville. Went to William Seward High together. Aaron was a brainy kid. We used to build model aeroplanes together. All that Aaron ever cared about was aeroplanes. Aeroplanes and rocket-ships. He used to read the funny papers: Brick Bradford, Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon. He couldn’t get enough of that crazy stuff.”

Foxx shook his head. His dark brown hair was overdue for a trim. It whipped back and forth. “Never mind that. Are you still close?”

Maccabee raised his hands, clasped like those of a prize-fighter celebrating a knockout victory. “Like this.”

“When did you last see him?”

Maccabee grinned. “We both got out of Brownsville a long time ago, but we’re still pals. Our wives go shopping, kids all play together. We just had a big Thanksgiving dinner Chez Lieberman. He’s done well. Has a nice house out on the Island, a little goldfish pond in the backyard, shiny new car.”

“All right, Jake. Good. Now, do you have any idea what Lieberman would be working on that Goering and Hitler are so eager to get their hands on? Jack? Lisalotte? Did Konrad say anything last night — think hard, my dear — that might give us a hint?”

Lisalotte Schmidt said, “He had a bottle of Schnapps. He’d had a couple of drinks at the Blaue Gans and he drank a lot more at the Rotfrauhaus. He fell asleep after … after he fell asleep, he woke up half in a stupor. I had to help him to the toilet. A pig he is. He looked into the bowl and he said something very strange, Mr Foxx. He said, I give you his words exactly; he said, ‘Fliegend kommt es aus der Toilette.’ I thought he was just babbling. But something maybe it means, yes?”

“Yes, it does,” Foxx said.

Maccabee said, “Yes.”

Andy Winslow said, “Not to me it doesn’t. I don’t understand kraut.”

Foxx said, “It means, ‘Out from the toilet it comes flying,’ Andy.”

Winslow said, “I get the picture. But do I want to?”

Foxx said, “Jake, what do you think?”

Maccabee said, “I saw something in Lieberman’s house on Thanksgiving, Mr Foxx. It was a model aeroplane, I thought. Only it looked more like a spaceship. I figured Aaron was up to his old tricks again, building toy aeroplanes and spaceships for his kids.

“But he said, ‘Come outside, I’ll show you something.’ The girls were making dinner in the kitchen and the kids were all down in the basement playing hide and seek. He picked up the model aeroplane, rocket-ship — whatever — and we went outside. It was pretty chilly, but the goldfish pond wasn’t frozen or anything. He clicked a couple of switches on the model and set it down in the fishpond. At first it sank but I could still see it — the pond is only a couple of feet deep. Some lights went on in the model, a couple of propellers started to whirl around, and it came right up out of the water and flew around over our heads, and then it circled back and landed in the pond. It started to sink but Aaron got a hold of it and we went back in the house and had our dinner.”

Foxx had dropped his chin — all right, his chins — down on his chest as Maccabee told his little story. You might have thought Foxx had fallen asleep but he hadn’t. He was listening to every word. Now he said, “‘Fliegend kommt es aus der Toilette.’ It came flying out of the toilet. But it didn’t, it came flying out of the fishpond. Jacob, do you see what your friend has invented? Andy, don’t you see it? Miss Schmidt? No one?”

He heaved a great sigh.

“This little toy of his — imagine a dozen of them — a hundred — packed in a submarine. Imagine the submarine approaching the enemy coast. It could send one of these little machines up to circle over an enemy force. It could carry one of those small motion-picture cameras that are all the rage. It could take pictures of the enemy army then fly back and dive into the water. Or …” he turned his massive head to the ceiling as if he could see fleets of tiny aircraft circling there “… or, they could be packed with explosives instead of cameras. They could be used in naval battles to attack enemy ships. Miniature flying torpedoes.”

He shook his head. “No wonder Hermann Goering wants to get his hands on this thing.” To Lisalotte Schmidt he said, “When is Konrad going out to Carrolton? You say he told you he is going tomorrow. What time? Does he have an appointment with Strauss?”

“No, he didn’t say. He was from the Schnapps, too much he drank, drunk and sick. But he said in two days. Zwei Tage. He said that.”

Foxx pointed a carefully manicured finger at Jacob Maccabee. “Tomorrow morning. Crack of dawn. Here, Jake.”

“Okay.”

“And make sure your friend Lieberman knows we’re coming. Andy, make sure the Packard is gassed up and ready to roll. Miss Schmidt, will you join us?”

“Mit Vergnugen, Herr Foxx! Donnerstag hele und fruh!”

* * *

Thursday bright and early. Reuter had prepared a breakfast for Foxx of oatmeal, fried eggs with bacon, Russian-style rye bread, lightly toasted and covered with fresh home-churned butter plus half a grapefruit roasted with honey. A pot of chicory-flavored coffee with heavy cream accompanied the meal.

Andy Winslow had a glass of orange juice and a toasted bagel.

Jacob Maccabee and Lisalotte Schmidt stated that they had breakfasted at their respective homes. More to the point, Maccabee told the others that he had reached Lieberman by telephone on Wednesday night. They’d discussed the miniature fliers.