Mike Ashley: The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Didn’t he have any private life? Maybe he did, but, if so, he didn’t share it with anyone. Everybody else at Sapphire-MacNeese seemed to have family photos on their desks: pictures of themselves on vacation, evidence of hobbies. Not Richard Strauss.

Still, there was nothing there that shouldn’t be. Only it seemed that, beyond his slide-rule and his drawing board, Richard Strauss wasn’t even there.

Jacob Maccabee said that he’d warned Lieberman to keep an eye out for anything that seemed suspicious today, especially unexpected visitors. But, speaking of visitors, would he arrange a set of passes for Caligula Foxx and companions.

A uniformed guard checked a sheet of foolscap on a clipboard, asked to see identification, and waved the Packard through the gate. Andy Winslow pulled the big car up to a visitors’ spot and they all climbed out.

“Uh-oh!” Winslow grabbed Caligula Foxx’s elbow. He pointed. “Take a gander at that!”

Foxx followed Winslow’s pointing finger. “Yes, what is it, Andy? Confound you, what am I supposed to be looking at?”

Winslow ran half a dozen steps to a dark-coloured LaSalle coupé. It might or might not have been snowed upon in the past few days, but it was spotlessly clean now, sparkling in the bright sunlight of a December morning.

In the corner of the LaSalle’s rear window was a sticker. It depicted an American eagle, a cluster of lightning bolts in one claw and a swastika in the other.

“Konrad beat us here, Caligula.”

“All right. Let’s get on with this.” Fox turned. “Jacob, are you ready? You and Miss Schmidt? Your friend Lieberman is expecting us? Right, then into the lion’s den we go!”

The Sapphire-MacNeese Aircraft Company loomed like a grey rectangle against the bright blue sky. A smartly dressed receptionist asked them to wait while she phoned Dr Lieberman. The reception area was decorated with oversized photographs of past Sapphire-MacNeese aeroplanes. There were single-engined pursuit craft, both open-cockpit biplanes and streamlined closed-cockpit monoplanes. There were also a couple of bombers — huge, lumbering, four-engined aerial behemoths. There was even a modern airliner, silvery and glistening, that looked as if it could give the latest Boeing and Douglas models a run for their money.

Aaron Lieberman arrived and shook hands all around. He was red-haired and freckle-faced. He looked more like a schoolboy than one of the leading aviation designers of the era. He put his arm around Jacob Maccabee’s shoulders. “Mr MacNeese is in town this week, Jake. I’ll introduce you. Mr Foxx, I know he’s heard of you. He’ll be thrilled to meet the famous detective.”

Maccabee said, “I’ve told my friends about your little robot flier, Aaron. I know they’d like to see it.”

Lieberman said, “We need to talk about that. Come on, this will only take a little time.”

He led the way to a conference room. When they entered they were confronted by a pair of uniformed figures, one in the heavy forest-green outfit of an army major, the other in the dark blue of a navy captain. A third man, wearing civilian garb, was also present. The newcomers were ushered to seats at a polished table. The naval officer promptly took charge of the meeting.

“Mr Foxx, Mr Winslow, Mr Maccabee, Miss Schmidt,” the captain nodded to each in turn. “I’m afraid there has been a serious breach of security. I’m not blaming Dr Lieberman or anyone else here at Sapphire-MacNeese. Oh, I don’t suppose you know Mr Carter MacNeese. It’s his company.” He allowed himself a small, rather icy smile.

“Dr Lieberman has confessed that he took home a test model of the OR-X1. That he actually demonstrated it to at least one of you. Ah, Mr Maccabee, I see you’re joining in the confession.”

“I wouldn’t call it a confession,” Maccabee responded. He was angry, that was clear.

Lieberman’s reaction was milder but similar. “I acknowledge that I took it home. I showed it to Mr Maccabee. I wouldn’t use the word confess, though, captain.”

Now Carter MacNeese took a hand. “Captain, I understand that the government wants the OR-X1 kept secret. That is what they want now . And we are implementing every possible precaution to keep this device out of the hands of any potential enemy. But, we started this development on our own; then , there was no government contract. We’ve been offering the OR-X1 to the army and navy for three years. They finally decided they wanted to give us a contract for the device. You can’t hold Dr Lieberman responsible for a breach of security before there was any security to breach!”

They went on that way. By the time the conference broke up there were armed soldiers and sailors patrolling the halls.

Aaron Lieberman spoke to Caligula Foxx and his companions. “I guess there won’t be any demonstration of the model today. We’ve been running tests from a navy submarine in Peconic Bay. I wonder what the local wildlife think of our little flying gadgets. Or the local fishermen! Jake, you won’t talk about this to anyone, I hope.”

“Of course not. I love the way those military stuffed-shirts act as if they were high muck-a-mucks.”

Now Lisalotte Schmidt spoke up. “What about Konrad? He was going to come out here today!”

Lieberman grabbed the nearest telephone. He got an extension. He asked a question, waited for an answer, then exclaimed, “Gone? Both of them gone? Call the gatehouse.” He turned to the others, aghast. “They’ve left. I don’t know if they took anything important with them. A working model or a set of blueprints.”

Andy Winslow sprinted for the door. He raced to the visitors’ parking lot. He turned around and walked back into the building. “Come on, everyone! The Packard is still there. The LaSalle is gone.”

Caligula Foxx sank into a visitor’s chair. He dropped his head into his hands, held the posture briefly, then shook himself like a dog emerging from a duck pond. He pushed himself to his feet and suddenly, for the first time since arriving that morning, he was clearly the man in charge of the situation.

“Mr MacNeese and those uniformed popinjays will have to be informed at once. Someone needs to telephone the FBI right away. Probably the general and the admiral will draw straws to decide who gets to do the job. Konrad and Strauss must have caught on, they know their gaff is blown. I expect that they’re headed back to Manhattan and straight to the German consulate on Park Avenue. Either there or to Bund headquarters in Yorkville, but they’ll have extra-territorial rights at the consulate. That will be up to the FBI.”

To Lieberman he said, “I’m sorry about all of this. My apologies, sir.”

Lieberman shook his head. “Not your fault, Mr Foxx. Not your fault.”

Andy Winslow was practically jumping up and down with impatience. He ran for the door, followed by Jacob Maccabee and Lisalotte Schmidt. Caligula Foxx brought up the rear, puffing like a winded dray-horse. Winslow held the Packard’s passenger door open for him. He had the big sedan in gear even as Foxx pulled his feet from the running board.

They headed out of the parking lot, blew past the little guard-station, and headed for the new roadway that would lead to Manhattan. They caught sight of the LaSalle just as it pulled on to the Grand Central Parkway. It must be a special model, perhaps modified from the modest little car that it appeared, for it accelerated furiously away from the Packard and headed back towards the city.

There was considerable traffic in both directions; commuters headed for their homes and shoppers and celebrants speeding into New York. The sky had turned grey and heavy, wet flakes were falling, threatening to make the roadway dangerously slippery. The Packard’s windshield started to ice up and Andy Winslow turned on both the wipers and the defroster.