Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Winslow paused for breath. Foxx unlaced his fingers and without opening his eyes gestured for Winslow to read further.

“‘You may not have heard of Heinrich Konrad, cousin. Or, come to think of it, I am certain that you do know of him, as he is a native of Maffersdorf bei Reichenberg in Bohemia. Not far, as I recall, from the seat of your own branch of our family, and the place of your birth. Konrad was the leader of the Sudetendeutsch Partei and a campaigner for the recent, vile treaty that led to the dismemberment of Czechoslovakia and the annexation of the Sudetenland by Germany. The Sudetendeutsch Partei no longer exists as a separate entity, and Konrad is now a fully fledged Nazi.

“‘His Majesty’s government, as reported to me by our mutual relative in the Diogenes Club, believes that Konrad was involved in the planning of the recent misfortune at the Tower. He had been in England as a minor functionary of the German embassy. He is no longer in this country. It is my belief that he has entered the United States of America in the guise of a businessman. He travelled as a first class passenger aboard the North German Lloyd liner Leipzig . The name under which he travelled is Bedrich Smetana.

“‘I do not know his mission in the United States, but I would suggest that you contact the American authorities and set them on the qui vivre for this man. In fact, I am of the distinct impression that you are already acquainted with him, so I will not attempt a physical description. It is not entirely impossible that he will be in contact with his nation’s embassy in Washington or its consulates in other cities. Our mutual cousin has also suggested that Konrad is involved in Germany’s war preparations, and her relationship with her Asiatic ally. It is thus possible that Konrad will proceed from New York to the American State of California. He may also have contacts with such groups as Herr Fritz Kuhn’s German — American Bund or the Ku Klux Klan. You are doubtless aware that there are also a number of supposed German — American Friendship Societies or social clubs that are actually dens of fifth columnists.

“‘Be careful, dear cousin. This scoundrel is totally ruthless. Feel free to call upon me at any time if you feel that I can be of assistance.’”

Andy Winslow folded the document and laid it on his employer’s desk. “That’s it,” he announced. “Oh, and the signature — ”

Caligula Foxx grumbled. “I wondered if you would bother with that bit of information. Shall we play a guessing game, or would you be so kind as to tell me.”

“Sorry, Mr Foxx. It was signed, Sexton Blake .”

Andy Winslow ran his finger down the sheet of paper. “That’s a lot of words, Caligula. Must have cost Blake a bundle to send it over the cable.”

Foxx pursed his lips, then sipped at his ale. “I wouldn’t worry about Cousin Sexton’s financial status. He drives that wondrous bullet-proof Silver Ghost, keeps his man Tinker on call, and feeds his bloodhound ground porterhouse. He can afford a few extra pounds sterling.” Foxx studied the golden beverage remaining in his glass. “Very well, Andy, here are your instructions. No, you will not need your pad and pencil. Just pay close attention to what I tell you, and then we shall take a break from our labours and sample Reuter’s no doubt excellent Sunday luncheon.”

Following a light meal of lobster bisque, spinach salad, and steak tartare garnished with tiny cherry tomatoes and topped off with espresso and biscotti, Winslow set to work. He telephoned Jacob Maccabee, whom both he and Foxx regarded as the premier legman in the City of New York, as well as the best-connected with the shadier elements of that metropolis’s demi-monde. They agreed to meet on a bench beneath the statue of one-time Senator Roscoe Conkling in Madison Square Park.

Despite the distance involved, Andy Winslow chose to walk from West Adams Place to Twenty-third Street. The light snowfall had ceased and a bright December sun shone in a sparkling blue sky. When Andy reached the appointed spot, Maccabee had already arrived and brushed the accumulated snow from the bench’s green-painted wooden slats.

Maccabee was a man of less than average height, dark complexion, heavy eyebrows, huge dark eyes, and a distinctly Semitic nose. He wore a nondescript overcoat, slightly scuffed shoes, and a grey fedora that was starting to show its age. He was perusing a black-covered copy of Mein Kampf , in the original German. He looked up at Andy Winslow. “You seem intrigued by my reading-matter, Andy.”

“Was I so obvious?”

“Know thine enemy, Andy.”

Winslow sat down beside Maccabee.

Maccabee slipped a bookmark into Mein Kampf and turned his full attention to Winslow.

“We had an attempted murder on our doorstep this morning, Jacob.”

“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.”