The Letter Writer (30 page)
Authors: Dan Fesperman
IN APRIL 1917, SHORTLY BEFORE
my twenty-sixth birthday, I tried to become a soldier in the United States Army. The world was at war and I wished to do my part. I meant to “beat back the Hun,” as the placards said, even though by birth I
was
a Hun. I saw it as my chance to prove that I was at last fully American, and with my mother and father long gone there was no one to object. Or so I thought.
Out of professional courtesy I decided to notify my boss of my intentions, the very man of genius and largesse who had utilized my talents to date, and, by doing so, had turned me into a somewhat polished man of means.
It was early evening by the time I steeled myself for this task. He sat in his usual booth at Lindy's, dapper as ever in a pressed suit, starched shirt, and his almost dainty bow tie. I detected the scent of his aftershave as he welcomed me into what passed for his office. I must have been more nervous about it than I wanted to let on, because I remember trying to strike a casual pose by leaning against the coatrack. I cleared my throat and broke the news.
“I am going to enlist.”
“Enlist?”
“For the war.”
“You already
have
enlisted,” he said, gesturing grandly with his right arm to encompass the room and all his minions and petitioners, gathered under one roof as they did each and every night. It was, in that sense, very much like a corporate headquarters.
“With the draft board, I mean.”
“I know what you mean. But you're needed here, Sascha. For this war, which will still be going long after the one in Europe has ended.”
I eyed him closely. The intensity of his resolve was written in the steady coolness of his eyes. He was practically daring me to blink. Then, as it became clear that I wouldn't, he rose slowly and placed a hand on my shoulder. Under other circumstances it might have felt protective, but at the moment it seemed only as if he were driving home the message that he would never willingly release his hold. For the first time since we had met, I was genuinely frightened by the man.
Yet, I could not resist raising at least the possibility of a challenge to his authority.
“And if I sign up anyway?”
“Well, you know what becomes of deserters, don't you? In anyone's army, theirs or ours.”
I nodded, hoping that he would see that I had exhausted the limits of my resistance, and therefore needed no further explanation. Apparently he was not convinced, because he then elucidated further by miming the shape of a pistol with his right hand. He held this pose briefly before snapping down his thumb like a firing hammer.
“Bang,” he said.
Then he smiled, so that we could pretend it was a joke, even though we both knew it wasn't.
So, I stayed home in New York, and continued to fight in that other war which only occasionally made the newspapers, issuing its casualty reports in ones and twos. I suppose you might say I worked in the intelligence corps, a role which fortunately did not often lend itself to criminal charges or grand jury proceedings.
That alarming moment of candor made me realize that there would never be any safe exit from this world unless I was willing to take extraordinary measures. It was then that I first began to contemplate what those measures might entail, even though I would not come up with a satisfactory answer for another eleven and a half years.
Now, having heard the terrible name of Anastasia in association with this scheme that Mr. Cain and I have stumbled upon, I realize that those extraordinary measures, which once seemed foolproof, were almost certainly insufficient. And with the world once again in conflict I fully expect in the days to come to be called back into active duty in that other, lesser war, the one closer to home, the one in which service is always compulsory. Except this time my charge as a soldier will be to protect Mr. Cain and his daughter. Having drawn them into the line of fire, I must vow to act more out of concern for their safety than my own.
Such were my thoughts as I rounded the corner onto Rivington Street and saw, to my horror, that the windows and doors for house number 174 were pouring black smoke into the gray skies above. A crowd stood outside, clamoring, alarmed, mouths open. A long truck of the fire brigade had arrived, and men in red helmets were smashing forward with axes and hoses. I thought of all those lives trapped inside, in their snug holes and crevices, spirits which now seemed to be rising from the windows with each bellow of smoke.
I cried out loudly and ran. Reaching a cordon of neighbors, I shoved them aside, desperate for entry, until my progress was halted by a pair of rough hands that seized me from behind and threw me backward to the ground. I looked up expecting to see an overzealous fireman, but instead beheld two grinning men in fedoras and dark pinstripe suits who began kicking me with the toes of their lace-up Italian shoes.
“It burns, and you're gone, chump!” the one on the right said as his toe hammered my rib cage.
I rolled onto my stomach just as a blow from the other direction glanced off my head. I already felt light-headed, trying to fend off their kicks with my arms at my sides even as their blows drummed my ribs and my back. I heard shouting, some sort of commotion in the crowd beyond, and then the noise went fuzzy and the world grew dim. That was when the kicking suddenly stopped, leaving my ears ringing and my body in agony, but my consciousness intact. Slowly, painfully, I raised myself onto my knees. Then a hand came down to help me, pulling me unsteadily to my feet.
It was Yuri Zharkov, I saw now, although my eyes were swimming. A police patrol car, its door open and the engine still running, was pulled to the edge of the crowd at a violent angle. Half the people were still watching the fire, and half were watching me. Another policeman, arriving on foot, held one of the thugs at gunpoint. The other had presumably made his escape.
“You okay, Sascha?”
Zharkov looked back and forth between me and the thug, who had a nasty welt in his forehead with an imprint of the grain of Zharkov's gun stock. The thug was swaying on his feet, even woozier than me.
“I think so.” I patted myself to check for anything broken.
“Here,” Zharkov said, handing me a handkerchief. “Your nose is bloody.”
I tasted salt and wiped at my face. The handkerchief came away red, so I held it again to my nostrils and squeezed.
“You need to find a bolthole and stay in it,” Zharkov said.
“You expect there will be more of them?”
“Your secret's out.
Our
secret. Cain, everybody, they all know it. Hogan, Lansky, everybody. I'll make do, you know how that works, but you are well and truly fucked.”
“Yes,” I said, taking it all in. A gust of smoke blew through us, acrid and stinking of burned paper, suddenly reminding me of why moments ago I had been in such a panic.
“My letters!” I exclaimed, turning. But as I did so, a shower of sparks blew toward us and the gasping crowd surged back. We heard the crash and splintering roar of falling timbers. The roof was collapsing. The house was caving in on itself.
My
house. My neighborhood nerve center, with all its memories, its archival importance, turning to ashes before my eyes.
I sank to my knees. I saw no way forward, no way of moving anywhere at all. And for a moment or two I contemplated how I might most easily finish what the two thugs had begun. Drown myself, shoot myself, jump off a bridge. Into the East River, perhaps, to join my mother and father.
Then I shuddered and drew a few deep breaths to clear my head of smoke and fear and pain. I stood, regaining my balance more easily than I would have thought possible. Zharkov told me to get into the patrol car. His words came to me muted and wavery, as if we were both underwater.
However dimly, I now realized that one course still remained open to meâa dark and slender path leading back into the past. Just as I'd suspected, just as I'd feared, I had become a soldier again, called back to duty in the only war I had ever known.
“Get in,” Zharkov said again, taking me by the arm. “We have to find someplace where you'll be safe for a while.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding.
I was eager to get moving, eager to tend to my wounds. It was time to re-enlist.
CAIN'S PANIC MOVED INTO
its second hour.
He had already phoned Danziger three times and Beryl twice. No answer at the former, but he had finally reached Beryl, who vowed to be there as fast as she could. In desperation for any possible help he had even tried to reach Harris Euston, but all he got was his father-in-law's secretary, who curtly took a message and told him that her boss was gone for the day, even though it was only three p.m.
Finally he tried phoning Zharkov at the station house, but neither the detective nor the patrol car had returned, and for the moment both were unreachable by radio.
Briefly he toyed with the idea of asking Mulhearn to sound the alarm, or put out an APB for his daughter. But he knew from experience that they fielded missing person calls like this all the time, and never did a damn thing until at least forty-eight hours had passed. And for all he knew, Mulhearn, or Maloney, or another of his corrupt colleagues from the 14th precinct was in on the whole thing, so what was the use?
Going stir-crazy as he paced the floor of the small kitchen, Cain grabbed his keys, ran down the stairs, and headed for the street. Tom the doorman bounded to his feet, following Cain onto the sidewalk.
“Any luck, sir?”
“No,” he called over his shoulder. “Not a sign.”
He had no plan, no leads, no ideas, and at first all he could think to do was circle the block, if only to burn off nervous energy. He then expanded his orbit by a block in each direction, on the slim hope of stumbling onto Olivia and Eileen in some park or school playground, or on the stoop of a beneficent friend or neighbor who would turn out to be the person who'd generously sent the limo, although Cain knew that didn't make a damn bit of sense.
Misery seemed to be everywhere he looked. A young woman emerged from a store in tears; a beggar fell to his knees at the curb, pants torn, ranting about a spilled cup of coffee; the old grocer Aldo from around the corner, usually so cheerful, stood morosely in his doorway, head down. On Seventh Avenue, Cain looked up at the sky hoping to see a hopeful expanse of blue, but instead felt hemmed in by the tall buildings, windows reflecting sunlight so sharply that it hurt his eyes. Omens and portents, all of them bad.
He stopped to collect himself and was immediately bumped into from behind.
“Move it, bud!”
This wasn't bustle, or vibrancy. It was a stampede before an ill wind. He resumed his progress, such as it was, and as he returned to the apartment building he saw Tom galloping toward him.
“They're here, sir! All in one piece!”
Cain stopped, momentarily overwhelmed by relief, blood pounding between his ears. He stooped over, pressed his hands to his knees, and then straightened as he drew a deep breath, tasting spring.
“Thank you, Tom. Are they upstairs?”
“Yes, sir. I'm sorry to have upset you, sir.”
“No, Tom, it's fine.” He heaved out another deep breath. “All's well that ends well.”
He came through the door to find them both in the kitchen, Olivia seated at the table with a glass of water, and Eileen beside her with a look of concern, still holding her purse, as if she expected to be asked to leave immediately.
“Mr. Cain,” she said. “My apologies, sir. We justâ”
“Where were you? Oh, Olivia, come here.”
He reached her before she could even climb out of the chair, and he pulled her into the air with a fierce hug. If anything she seemed baffled, but she kissed him on the cheek. He gently set her back down and turned to Eileen.
“Who was in the limo?” he asked. “The big Packard that came and picked you up?”
Eileen lowered her head. “I am so sorry, sir. I have been a deceitful woman. But I cannot do it no more, sir, no matter how much he pays me.”
“Who?”
She winced and averted her eyes. “Mr. Euston, sir.”
Cain was about to ask more, but she rushed onward in another burst of confession.
“I knew I'd reached my limit, sir, when the girl told me about what happened last Saturday night, after I called in saying there was a family emergency, like he'd asked me.”
“Euston
asked
you to do that?”
She nodded rapidly.
“And on Monday morning, when this poor girl told me about all the places she'd been that night, and everything that she had seen.” Eileen shook her head. “Well, sir, not that I don't wish for her to spend more time in the house of the Lord. But, glory be, Mr. Cain, with all of those people of the night? You couldn't burn enough incense to hide the stench of their mortal sin. The ladies alone. And when she told me the story of that poor man⦔
“The German? You know about him? Tell me, when you last talked to Mr. Euston, did you tell him about the German?”
She lowered her face, and didn't look up as she answered. “Only in the most general way, sir. Just as I'm telling you now. It wasn't as if the poor girl gave me chapter and verse.”
Cain stood there marveling at his father-in-law's manipulative powers, at all of his conduits for information. And no wonder, with clients like Herman Keller and Chase Bank to cover for. Poor old Gerhard. Even a knave like him seemed to deserve a little pity in the face of such formidable opposition. And this certainly explained why Euston had been so willing to pay for all of Eileen's extended hoursâexcept on Sunday, of course, when Euston must have realized Cain was still working the case in his off hours, so he had acted accordingly to try to stop him.
“Where did you go this afternoon, then, in Euston's limo?”
This was Eileen's worst moment yet. She twisted the handles of her purse. For a moment he thought she would cry.
“I don't blame
you,
Eileen,” he said softly. “Just tell me what happened.”
“It's the girl's mother, sir. He sends the car with her in it, and we climb in for a visit, for a ride.”
“A visit? With
Clovis
?”
The mention of the name almost crumpled Eileen. She answered with a nod.
“How many times has this happened? How many times have you taken Olivia to see her behind my back?”
Eileen began to shake with sobs.
“Daddy, it's all right.” It was Olivia, who lowered her head when he looked her way. Then she slowly looked up at him, her face imploring him for mercy. He realized then that he was quivering with anger, so he took another deep breath and blew the air out his cheeks.
“I was going to tell, you,” Olivia said, suddenly looking quite grown up. She paused. “Not right away, but someday.” A girl with her secrets. All those earlier trips to the park. “It's just been a few times. We drive around mostly. Or stop for ice cream and stuff. She asks about you.”
Cain dropped into a crouch and again enfolded his daughter in his arms.
“I'm not mad at you, sweetheart. I just need to know what you're doing, who you're seeing.” He steeled himself for his next words, not sure he could say them without a tinge of bitterness. “It's okay if you see your mama. But just tell me about it next time. Preferably beforehand, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now why don't you go to your room and get washed up for dinner. Maybe we'll go out, all right?”
“All right.”
His anger began building again almost the moment she departedânot at Eileen, or at Clovis, but at Euston, whose long-range plan now seemed clearer than ever. Give Cain a job to lure him and Olivia to New York. Then secretly reunite the girl with her mother, and as soon as Clovis was healthy or stable enough, snatch Olivia away from him with Eileen's assistance. In the meantime he'd use Cain all he could to find out more information from inside the 14th precinct. Then the Hansch case had come along, giving even greater urgency to Cain's role as a conduit, a tool. A bonus return on Euston's investment.
Although that part of the man's scheme had backfired, because Cain had now dug up enough dirt about Euston to stay his hand with regard to Olivia.
Provided no one killed Cain first. Because now he had the likes of Hogan and Haffenden bearing down on him with threats of prosecution or, at the very least, further embarrassment, over the shooting in Horton. Plus Lansky, Lanza, and, worst of all, Anastasia, who seemed to be acting beyond everyone's control. Even if Haffenden's intent was truly to secure the waterfront, at minimum the naval officer had been duped about the Mad Hatter's doings. Lansky himself had implied as much, with his gestures if not his words.
How do you fight back against those kinds of forces? Cain didn't yet have an answer.
“Is it all right if I go now, sir?” Eileen asked as meekly as a girl of nineteen.
“Yes, Eileen. You may go. And I hope you'll be returning in the morning.”
“Of course, sir.”
She bustled away before he could change his mind. Cain stood in the kitchen, worried and discouraged, trying to come up with any plausible means to keep the investigation going. His thoughts were interrupted by a tentative knock at the door.
“Christ!” he muttered. Eileen must have forgotten something.
Instead it was the night doorman, Pete, who must have just come on duty.
“Pardon, sir, but you have visitors, and considering the shape one of 'em is in I thought it was best to bring them up straightaway.”
The door opened wider to reveal Danziger, bruised and bleeding and smelling of smoke, with a shaken Beryl at his side, helping to support him. He was stooped beneath the weight of a dingy sack, a pillowcase bulging with papers which Cain now saw were letters and envelopes, folded and crumpled in a slapdash pile.
“What's happened? Bring them in, Pete. Danziger, are you all right?”
He and Beryl led Danziger to the couch, where the older man collapsed. He let his makeshift sack fall to the floor, where it slumped sideways and spilled a pile of letters onto the floor. Mixed among them, Cain saw, was the small photo of the young black-haired woman that he had seen atop Danziger's desk. Cain was now pretty sure he knew who it was. Among the letters that were showing, many were yellowed, with faded ink and foreign stamps. Lives, he thought. Scattered on his floor as if rescued from disaster.
Danziger followed his gaze.
“It is all that remains,” he said, patting the sack as if to reassure himself. His voice was hoarse with exhaustion, his blue eyes almost spectral. “I am fortunate in the extreme to have even this much. A neighbor, who is also a client, ran inside the moment he saw smoke, or else it would all be gone. Of course, some he could not save. A third of it, perhaps. Maybe more. Gone. Like smoke up a chimney.”
“Your whole place burned?”
“To the ground.”
“But how did youâ¦? You're bleeding, andâ”
“A pair of thugs, almost certainly dispatched by the Mad Hatter. They took hold of me as I tried to get through the crowd. They beat me, right there in front of everyone, and I have no doubt they would have finished the job if Yuri Zharkov had not arrived.”
“In the patrol car?”
“Yes. He told me of your lunch appointment, and of your newest archival acquisition. Even the Runyon story, he said. So now you know. Now you have seen it. The life of Sascha.”
Cain glanced at Beryl, who had settled onto the couch at Danziger's side. She frowned with concern.
“You can stay here if you like,” Cain told the old man. It seemed more important right now to offer assurance than to pry deeper into his past. Explanations could wait. He fetched a blanket, and Beryl put it around Danziger's shoulders. Then he got a glass of water. The older man drank and nodded in gratitude.
“I thank you for your generous offer,” Danziger said, “but it will not be safe for me here. It is one of the first places they will seek me. Fedya will know where I can hide. That is where I have come from, courtesy of this sweet young woman.”
“Fedya called me right after you did,” Beryl explained. “I'm glad to see Olivia's all right.”
“False alarm,” Cain said.
“The girl?” Danziger said, eyes shining with sudden alarm.
“She's fine,” Cain said. “See?”
Olivia, looking a little bewildered by the scene, waved to him from the kitchen doorway. Danziger smiled and relaxed back into the cushions.
“I've led you right back into the middle of everything,” Cain said.
“I have gone of my own accord. It was I who sought you out. Even then I probably knew where it would lead.” He looked off toward an empty corner of the room. “Perhaps that is why I did it.”
“But we can't stop now. Not completely. You should lay low, but I've been thinking about what I can still do, andâ”
Danziger's hand shot out and gripped Cain's forearm. His blue eyes glowed with vitality. He may have been drawing upon his last and deepest reserves, but he was not yet beaten.
“That is the very thing you must
not
do. Later, perhaps, when we are thinking more clearly. For now, you have your girl to think of, and you are yet so young. Please, Beryl, make a call now to your uncle, to see if he has completed the arrangements for my lodging.”
Beryl did so, and kept it brief. Cain heard the anxiety in her voice. Mostly she nodded while Fedya talked.
“You should eat,” Cain said to Danziger. “All of us should. Olivia and me were about to go out.”
Danziger shook his head. “Go, then, the two of you. I should not be out and about with you. I would not put her at risk in that way. I have put far too many innocents at risk in this life of mine, as by now you must be aware.”
“Sort of.”
“Yes. Police records are always incomplete. The bones only. Perhaps after you have eaten, I can offer you the flesh and blood.”
“You don't have to, you know. You don't owe me that.”
“I do, especially if I am to ask one last favor of you.”
And so, an hour later, after Beryl ventured out for sandwiches from a diner, the three of them ate while Danziger watched from the couch, the blanket still around his shoulders. After washing up, Cain sent Olivia off to her room, and Beryl left for her uncle's.
