The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Maccabee was right. Andy Winslow and Jacob were completing their reports to Caligula Foxx when the brass knocker sounded. Foxx himself wore his usual aquamarine shirt with hand-painted tie and comfortable grey flannel suit. Winslow knew that Reuter was busy in the pantry preparing the day’s luncheon so he answered the door himself. He had already placed a silver tray with coffee urn and cups and pastries on Foxx’s oversized desk.

Lisalotte had changed her outfit to a stylish toque hat of forest green and a matching winter coat. In the foyer she doffed the coat to reveal a dark grey dress set off with mild yellow trim. To Andy Winslow she looked simultaneously weary and energized, as if she had followed a hard night with a brief rest and a refreshing shower.

Ever courtly, Foxx rose and took Lisalotte’s hand. He escorted her to a seat and poured coffee for her. There was a low table beside her chair and she placed the cup and saucer on it carefully.

“I am no blushing schoolgirl,” Lisalotte announced, “but, in all my life and all the men I have had dealings with, no one comes close to that beast. I just hope the filth and the stink of him is off me.” She held her hands before her and studied them. She exhaled.

“He is staying in a hotel in Yorktown. The Rotfrauhaus on Eighty-Sixth Street. He is registered under the name of Antonin Dvorak.”

Caligula Foxx burst into laughter. His belly shook with merriment. “Oh, that is too good, too good, Lisalotte. That alone makes my day, and it’s hardly mid-morning yet.”

Andy Winslow said, “I don’t get it, Caligula. What’s so special about that name?”

“Why, Herr Konrad entered this country under the name Bedrich Smetana. My cousin Sexton Blake warned me of that. I don’t imagine a person whose musical tastes are as — shall we say, as limited as your own — would get the joke. Nor the punch line of becoming Antonin Dvorak once he’d arrived in New York. Oh no, Herr Konrad is a despicable individual, but he is neither stupid nor ignorant.”

He leaned forward, studying the assortment of pastries Reuter had provided. He selected one and transferred it to a Dalton dish, cream-coloured with maroon-deckled trim, circled in gold. He sliced a wedge-shaped morsel from the pastry and popped it in his mouth, consuming it with obvious pleasure.

He turned to Lisalotte Schmidt. “You have my gratitude, my dear. You have done a greater service, I imagine, than you realize. But now we need to know what information you gathered from Herr Konrad-Smetana-Dvorak. Why is he in this country? Surely not just to address a room full of ne’er-do-wells and malcontented bully-boys.”

“He is going to Long Island, to the village of Carrolton Beach. Do you know that place? I do not, Mr Foxx.”

Foxx nodded. “I know the place. Yes. Go on.”

“There is an aeroplane factory there. They are developing a new kind of aeroplane for the government. I do not know the details, but Konrad says Hitler wants it for his own forces. He says that Hermann Goering is eager to see the plane, to see its plans, and to build a copy of it for the Führer.”

She paused to down a heavy draught of coffee, wiped her lips with a linen napkin, and resumed.

“He has a spy in the aeroplane factory. He is going to see him tomorrow, to get a set of blueprints from him and take them back to Germany.”

Foxx steepled his fingers on his chest. “I don’t suppose you know his spy’s name?”

“He said it was Richard Strauss.” She gave the name its proper pronunciation. Reek-hardt.

Foxx shot a look at Jacob Maccabee. “Well, Jake, what can you add to that?”

“Only aircraft factory any where near Carrolton is Sapphire-MacNeese. Good company.”

“Connections?”

“Mr Foxx — how long have you known me? Of course!”

Foxx sliced another wedge of pastry. For a man of his enormous appetite he was a fastidious eater. He nodded to Maccabee, signalling him to continue.

“Aaron Lieberman. Chief designer there. Reports directly to Carter MacNeese. MacNeese bounces between Long Island and their California plant. Flies his own plane every time he wants to hit the other coast. Seems to me it would be a long commute, but who am I to say?”

Foxx pursed his lips. “Tell me about this Lieberman.”

“We grew up in Brownsville. Went to William Seward High together. Aaron was a brainy kid. We used to build model aeroplanes together. All that Aaron ever cared about was aeroplanes. Aeroplanes and rocket-ships. He used to read the funny papers: Brick Bradford, Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon. He couldn’t get enough of that crazy stuff.”

Foxx shook his head. His dark brown hair was overdue for a trim. It whipped back and forth. “Never mind that. Are you still close?”

Maccabee raised his hands, clasped like those of a prize-fighter celebrating a knockout victory. “Like this.”

“When did you last see him?”