The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“Andy, Andy.” Foxx heaved a great sigh. Considering his bulk, it would have done justice to a rugby squad. “I have the greatest admiration for Jacob and his little band of merry men. And women.”

He paused to lace his fingers, this time across his bulbous abdomen.

“But I believe in casting more than one line into the stream when I set out to catch a fish. Yes. Heinrich Konrad is a very slippery and elusive fish, but I mean to catch him if I can. Jacob will do his work. You will do yours.”

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.