The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

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.

He caught sight of the LaSalle forty or fifty yards ahead. He could see the eagle insignia in its rear window. He floored the Packard’s accelerator, and the big car leaped forward. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled the Beretta from beneath his arm.

A convoy of bright yellow school buses loomed ahead of the Packard; the LaSalle blasted past them, the Packard following. Andy Winslow caught a glimpse of children’s faces, peering out the windows of the buses, watching the two speeding cars as if they were piloted by Barney Oldfield and Eddie Rickenbacker.

A figure leaned out the passenger window of the LaSalle and pointed something at the Packard. Andy Winslow saw a yellow-red flash and heard a metallic sound as a small-calibre bullet bounced off the Packard’s fender. The LaSalle swerved in front of the first school bus, the Packard following, drawing alongside the LaSalle, and Winslow caught sight of a hand as the passenger leaned across the driver and fired again at the Packard.

Winslow handed his Beretta to Caligula Foxx. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Foxx roll down his window and get off a shot at the LaSalle. From the back seat of the Packard, Winslow heard a loud report. He inferred that it was a.38 or even a.45, fired by Jacob Maccabee.

A circle appeared in the driver’s-side door on the LaSalle, which swerved, its bumper clipping the corner of the Packard, swerving back again into its own lane. Another shot came from the LaSalle and Winslow felt the Packard lurch to the side. He fought the wheel, struggling to keep the big sedan from going into a 360-degree spin, finally managing to bring it to a halt on the shoulder. The LaSalle swept past, the convoy of school buses close on its tail.