The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

When it was all over, Andy Winslow and Rose Palmer made their way out of the meeting-room. The main restaurant downstairs was filled with diners — happy New Yorkers celebrating the holiday season, and out-of-towners come to see the bright lights and the tall buildings of the big city.

A hand came down on Winslow’s shoulder and another on Rose Palmer’s. They turned to see Jacob Maccabee. His tie was askew, his overcoat was buttoned wrong and his homburg was on the back on his head. Winslow was a tall individual and Rose Palmer was proportionately sized. Maccabee grinned at them. He was shorter than either. Before Maccabee could speak, Winslow said, “That was brilliant, Jacob. Crazy brilliant, but brilliant.”

Rose Palmer asked, “Whatever gave you the idea of singing those disgusting songs?”

They had moved away from the restaurant now. The meeting was breaking up and Winslow recognized some of the people from the upstairs room wandering off to find cars or cabs.

“Come on, I don’t want to see my friend the importer again. If he tries once more to sell me a Blaupunkt radio I think I’m gonna punch him in the shnozzola.”

Rose Palmer said, “Where’s Lisalotte?”

Maccabee said, “Did you watch that thug Konrad? Did you see the way he looked at her? I made it a point to light a cigarette for her while he was making his speech, and he spotted her and his eyes lit up. Man, he looked at her the way my cat looks at a slice of raw liver.”

“But where is she now?”

“They’re together. I don’t know where Herr Konrad is staying while he visits our burg. Maybe uptown at the German consulate. Maybe in a hotel or some safe house they’ve got set up. We’ll find that out.”

Winslow fingered the Beretta inside his jacket, snug in his armpit in its holster. “I was tempted,” he said. “A couple of times.” He pulled the automatic partway out of its resting place, far enough to show it to Maccabee. Rose Palmer already knew where he kept it.

“Bad idea, Andy.”

“But … that man … even if Caligula hadn’t said anything about him, you could tell Konrad’s a disgusting animal. And a dangerous one. And you just left her there to go off with him?”

Maccabee made a growling noise deep in his throat. “Fräulein Schmidt is a tough cookie, Rose. Don’t you worry about her. When Konrad finished his rant, all those Nazis started in on Deutschland Über Alles again and Konrad started working the crowd like Al Smith at the Easter Parade. He cut through that mob like a hot knife through butter. Every thug got a handshake and a Sieg heil, and then the big cheese moved on to the next bunch of suckers. Till he got to Lisalotte. You could tell that was his plan all along, from the first time he laid eyes on her.”

A Checker cab rolled past, throwing up black slush from the gutter. They were nearly at Church Street now.

“Jacob,” Rose persisted, “I still want to know what gave you the idea of singing like that. You weren’t really drunk, were you?”

“Jews don’t get drunk.”

“You don’t know everybody I do.”

“Anyway, it was this.” He laid a finger across the bridge of his nose and swept it down to the tip. “Put me in a lineup with a Chinaman, a Choctaw, and a Hottentot, and ask anybody to pick out the Jew and they’ll get it right on the first try.”

“But — ”

“But nothing, Rose. It’s the old Poe gimmick. Hide in plain sight. If a Jew tried to infiltrate that bunch of Nazis, what’s the obvious thing to do? He’d head for the darkest corner he could find, he’d keep his head down and his trap shut and hope that nobody’d notice him. And do you think that would work? In a pig’s ass — pardon my French, Rose — they’d catch him out in a minute. So I stood up and acted drunk and sang Nazi songs. No Jew would do that; so they just figured I was an unlucky Aryan who managed to pick up a bad gene from a wandering ancestor. So maybe this drunk wasn’t quite one hundred per cent pure Aryan, but he was obviously a good Nazi, so let him be. At least for now.”

Rose wasn’t satisfied. “What now? Do you think Lisalotte will actually spend the night with that — that person?”

“Ah, Rose, Rose, don’t be so squeamish. This isn’t a Mary Roberts Rinehart romance. Lisalotte may not enjoy staying over with that thug but, believe me, it isn’t a fate worse than death. It’s bad, but death is worse. And she’ll get more information from him in a few hours than I could get in a month is my bet.”

He took off his homburg, punched out a dent in it and set it back on his head. He straightened his tie and rebuttoned his coat. He said, “I’m headed for the subway, kiddies. My beloved helpmeet and the offspring are calling to me.”

Winslow said, “Wait, I’ve got my car. We’ll give you a lift.”

“Not necessary. Thanks all the same. I’ll see you atWest Adams Place tomorrow. Lunch-time unless you hear different. I’ll lay a double sawbuck that Schmidt will show up and she’ll bring the bacon with her.”

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