Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

He shuffled the papers in his lap. You’d have thought there was no order to them, and perhaps there was not; but, shortly, Foxx’s surprisingly sensitive fingers emerged with a slickly printed section of a Sunday publication.

“Here is a list of events over the next few days, Andy. Most of them are society dances, weddings and birth announcements. But there are also cultural gatherings. Buried among the concerts and art exhibitions are events scheduled by groups with which Pan Konrad would surely be in sympathy, and to which I would be astonished if he were not invited.”

He fixed his assistant with a sharp look.

“Do you think you could pass for a Nazi sympathizer, Herr Winslow?”

Andy Winslow leaped to his feet. He clicked his heels, gave a mock stiff-armed salute, and barked, “ Sieg heil! ”

Fox said, “Pretty good, Andy. You might want to practice a bit more. But that wasn’t bad.” Then Foxx made one of his lightning-like transitions. “Have you seen the lovely Miss Rose Palmer lately, my boy?”

“Of course.” Winslow paused. “Of course,” he repeated. “We see each other from time to time.”

“A most competent and talented young lady,” Foxx said. “And quite attractive, I should say.”

“I wouldn’t quarrel with that.”

“Very well, then. Here’s what you are to do. I am planning a little holiday supper for tomorrow evening. While you were conversing with Jacob Maccabee this afternoon, I met with Reuter and planned the menu du soir . A very small gathering, you understand. Strictly informal, no need to dress. You will invite Jacob and an associate of his choice. I trust you to communicate with Jacob. And of course Miss Palmer and yourself will be present. Eight o’clock promptly, cocktails and supper.”

Andy Winslow said, “Okay. I’ll take care of that. What else?”

Foxx rattled the slick section of the newspaper. It was part of The New York Journal-American. He poked a carefully manicured finger at a column of event notices. “‘The Beethoven — Wagner Cultural Institute is holding a luncheon meeting at the Blaue Gans Restaurant on Duane Street this Wednesday: reading of the minutes, a heimatlich meal, good Cherman bier, and the introduction of a special guest-speaker from the Heimat. ’ I have a feeling that the special guest-speaker will be Herr Konrad. The meeting is open to all like-minded patriots.”

“Sounds pretty dull to me. You know Count Basie and Billie Holiday are more my speed. I just don’t understand that longhair opera stuff, Caligula.”

Foxx lowered the newspaper and lifted his brandy. He took a sip of the beverage, then returned the snifter to its place. “Andrew, your musical taste, execrable though it may be, is your own concern. I will not engage in debate over the matter. But the Beethoven — Wagner Cultural Institute is not a music appreciation society. I assure you of that. When you get there you will find out what I mean. You still carry that little popgun that I gave you, do you not?”

Winslow tapped his chest. “Sweet little Beretta 1934. Not that I’ve had to use it very often.”

“Nor would I wish you to. But when the time comes, do not hesitate. And now,” Foxx stacked the Sunday newspapers carefully beside his chair, drew a golden turnip from a pocket and examined it, then repeated, “and now, I shall retire to my greenhouse and assure myself that the dear roses are safely enjoying their winter hibernation.”

Martha Mayhew was sitting up in bed when Andy Winslow entered her hospital room. She looked about a thousand per cent better than she had the day before. Which is to say, she looked like a young woman with a bandaged forehead rather than a wax dummy or a corpse waiting to be transported to the morgue. She was holding a movie fan magazine, slowly turning the pages of photos of Greta Garbo and Myrna Loy, Gary Cooper and Robert Montgomery, stopping in between to study ads for cosmetics and shampoos.

Winslow reminded her of who he was and she managed a smile of acknowledgement. She said that she was feeling better today. She also told him that she was starting to remember the previous day’s events. “I was trying to deliver a night letter to your house.”

“Yes. To my boss.”

“I’d come from the Postal Telegraph office on my bicycle. I’m trying to save enough money for college.”

“You were shot on our doorstep.”

“Next thing I knew, I was here.” She laid her hand on the bed-sheet when she said here. “But I can remember what happened before I was shot.”

Winslow nodded encouragement.

“I was pedalling carefully because the new snow was slippery and I didn’t want to skid. There was hardly any traffic, so I steered over near the curb. I noticed a car parked across the street with somebody sitting in it, and the motor running — I could see the exhaust.”

“Did you notice what kind of car?”

She started to shake her head but stopped and raised a hand to her temple. “Wow, that hurts!” She drew a couple of breaths, then went on. “It was a closed car, I think a coupé. A dark colour. I didn’t notice the brand.”

“A LaSalle?”

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t notice. But I saw inside a little bit. There were two men. They were talking to each other, but when I pedalled up they stopped, and one of them rolled down his window and talked to me.”

Winslow waited.

“He asked if it was cold enough for me. You know the old joke. ‘Cold enough for you?’ ‘Hot enough for you?’ ‘Wet enough for you?’ I’m from Indiana, Mr Winslow. I know all about cold and hot and wet. I said it was just fine, I love winter and snow. The man said, ‘How about a ride, we can put your bicycle in the trunk, you’ll be warm.’ I said I was nearly there, but thank you anyway. And I was nearly there. I was looking at the house numbers on West Adams and I turned up the footpath and leaned my bike against the railing and reached for the door knocker; that was the last I remember until I woke up in here.”

Andy Winslow started to ask another question but Martha Mayhew dropped the movie magazine and lay back in her bed. “I’m very tired.”

Winslow said, “That’s all right. You’re doing very well.” He started for the door, then turned back. “One more question, Miss Mayhew, and I’ll leave you. Could you identify either man? By his appearance or anything else?”

She closed her eyes and he thought she was going to sleep, but she opened her eyes again and said, “He was wearing glasses. Round glasses with metal rims — the one who talked to me. And his hair; his hair came down to a point, a … a … what they call a widow’s peak, you know? And he spoke with an accent. Some kind of European accent.”

Andy Winslow had picked up Rose Palmer early at her Sutton Place apartment. She wore a pale green chiffon dress that set off her white shoulders and flaming hair; darker green, elbow-length gloves, a silver fox jacket, and high-heel pumps completed her ensemble. They stopped at the Carlyle for cocktails and a medley of Cole Porter melodies, then proceeded to West Adams Place.

By the time they arrived there, a full moon shed ice-cold light on the frigid scene. They hurried up the steps to the front door. Earlier in the day Reuter had laid a fire. Jacob Maccabee and his companion were already present. The fire was crackling. Longhair music — the kind Winslow disliked — oozed from concealed loudspeakers in the corners of the room.

Jacob Maccabee and his companion were seated on the brocade sofa near the fire. Jacob wore a pinstripe suit, white-on-white shirt, maroon diamond-patterned tie. His dark complexion and saturnine features looked positively satanic in the light of dancing flames.