Hennessy hung up the telephone and swiveled in his seat to face Jane and Thomas Barry. “There were three cars stolen from the parking lot at the Flushing Bay Pier this afternoon. A green ’35 Nash, a ’37 Ford Coupé in blue and a white ’39 Dodge. They picked up a bunch of joyriders in the Ford, so we can scratch that one. The Nash and the Dodge haven’t been recovered. The Nash is plated 2V 32 90, the Dodge is 3J 20 86. Both of them are New York.” The policeman shrugged. “On the other hand the IRT station was just as close.”
“He wouldn’t have taken the chance,” said Jane, shaking her head. She was sitting on the couch across from Barry now. “Easier to watch people getting onto the trains than it is to watch ten or fifteen acres of parking lot.”
“The real question is, where’s he going?” said Hennessy.
Barry gingerly took a crumpled piece of carbon paper out of the inside of his jacket pocket. He laid it out flat on the coffee table. “I found this in the wastebasket in Mr. Foxworth’s secretary’s office. It’s the last page of Their Majesties’ itinerary for their stay in America.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Hennessy. “I didn’t know Limeys were so sneaky.”
“I wonder what other talents he’s keeping from us.” Jane grinned. Barry flushed and used two fingers to straighten out the sheet of carbon paper.
He leaned forward, peering down at the artifact. “According to this, the royal couple will be dining at President Roosevelt’s home in Hyde Park tonight at approximately eight. Sunday’s agenda begins with breakfast at nine, church in the village at eleven, back to the house at Hyde Park to change into casual clothing, and then at noon they go off with the president et al to a picnic lunch on the estate. At two they are scheduled to go to Mrs. Roosevelt’s cottage at Val Kill to go swimming, followed by tea, and then back to the president’s home. Dinner at six, followed by farewells at the Hyde Park Railway Station as they board the royal train for their return to Canada at ten. In parentheses for both the church and the railway station it says to expect crowds.”
“No kidding,” muttered Hennessy. “You’d think they were Gable and Lombard the way people swarm around them.”
Jane looked at her watch. It was ten after seven, the light outside only just beginning to fail. “We rule out the train station and the church, too many people and too many cops.”
“Same with anything to do at the president’s house,” put in Hennessy. “Cops all over the place, Limeys as well as our guys.”
“The picnic or the swimming thing,” said Jane. “Those are the only private events that aren’t at the house.”
Barry stared down at the sheet of carbon paper. “What’s the terrain like at this Val Kill spot? And what exactly is a kill? Sounds a bit ominous.”
“It’s Dutch for brook, or stream,” Jane answered. “I did a photo feature on Val Kill for Life a few years ago. It’s Eleanor’s private little spot away from the big house. It’s on the wooded side of the estate, west of the Albany Post Road and Route 9G farther east. They widened the stream to make a swimming hole and put up a big fieldstone-and-clapboard cottage. Pretty place. She’s got some kind of factory out there in the woods too, making furniture.”
“How many ways in or out?” Hennessy asked.
“There’s lots of trails through the bush, but as far as I know there’s only one actual road.”
“He’ll find an out-of-the-way spot to park his automobile and then he’ll walk in,” said Barry.
“But the king and queen won’t be alone,” Hennessy offered. “They’ll have cops all over the place at Val Kill as well.”
“He’ll be there hours ahead of time, long before Their Majesties appear.”
“Which means he’ll have to go to ground somewhere not too far away,” said Jane. “Tonight. A hotel or a motor lodge.”
“Why? He might go directly to his hide,” Barry suggested.
Jane shook her head. “Not likely. He’s off his home turf. It’ll be dark soon. Some guy stumbling over the Roosevelt estate shining a flashlight around is going to be pretty obvious.”
“How many hotels do you think there are in the vicinity?” asked Hennessy with a sigh.
“Why don’t we find out?” Jane said. “Get hold of Pelay and have him bring us up a Red Book.”
“What’s a Red Book?” Barry asked.
“The Hotel Association puts it out every year. It’s like a telephone directory for hotels all over the country.”
“Like an RAC Guide.” The Scotland Yard detective nodded. When Jane looked confused, he explained, “Royal Automobile Club.”
Hennessy made the call, the bell captain brought up the thick red-covered book and Jane flipped to the alphabetically listed section for New York. “It’s got to be Poughkeepsie,” said Hennessy, looking over her shoulder. “It’s the only place within reach.” There were three major and one minor hotel listed for the Hudson River town of forty thousand—Earles, with 55 rooms, the Kings Court with 150, Nelson House with 160 and the Poughkeepsie Inn with 120 rooms.
Jane jotted down the names and addresses on a sheet of hotel stationery, then walked Pelay back to the door. “Can you bring us up some sandwiches?” she asked. “Corned beef, ham and cheese, that kind of thing? Put ’em in lunch bags. I think we’re going to be eating on the road.” She led Pelay out the door and into the hall.
“You want more beer too?” he asked.
“No. Maybe a few sodas.”
“Sodas, okay. Coca-Cola.”
“Great,” Jane said, speaking quietly. “And one more thing.”
“Sure, you bet.”
“A gun.”
Pelay looked shocked. “A gun, Janey? What for are you wanting such a thing?” He was beginning to look very nervous.
“I need a gun, to protect myself.”
“When?”
“Now. I’ll pick it up from you on the way out of the hotel.”
“What kind of gun you want?”
“Whatever you’ve got handy.” She patted him on the cheek. “Just so long as it’s got bullets in it.”
“Anything else while I’m at it?” Pelay said, curling his lip. “You want maybe I get you a Tommy gun or something?”
“No, but I will be needing a car.”
“Whose car?”
“Yours would do.” Jane gave the little man her best smile. Pelay drove a brand-new, bright yellow Plymouth Roadking convertible coupé complete with whitewalls. It might as well have been a Lincoln or a Caddie for all the care and attention he gave it.
“You want my car?”
“It’s life or death. Otherwise I wouldn’t ask.” She paused. “And I need that little camera I saw in Bill Hartery’s office.” The house detective’s diminutive camera was a cheap little Univex Mercury, but it had a self-synchronizing flash unit.
“You want me to steal Mr. Hartery’s camera? Janey, you are stretching our friendship to its very limits.”
“I told you, Pelay, it’s life or death.” She grabbed a bit of cheek between her thumb and forefinger, tugging affectionately. “Do this for me and I won’t tell the guys at our next poker game about what the so-called countess from Montevideo said to me.”
The blood drained from his face. “You know about that?”
“All about it.”
“I will fetch what you need.”
“Good man.” She pushed him gently down the hall and went back into the room, closing the door behind her.
“What was that all about?” Hennessy asked.
“Pelay’s bringing us up some more sandwiches.”
“Well that’s all fine and good,” said Barry, “but I really think we have to address the situation at hand.”
“Address it how?” Hennessy asked. “Take it to Foxworth?” The policeman snorted. “He wouldn’t give us the time of day. As far as he’s concerned our man’s floating out in the Flushing Bay somewhere, getting nibbled on by the fish.”
“What about the bulletproof vest? The stolen cars?” Barry asked.
Hennessy shook his head. “Not enough. We can’t be absolutely sure of the vest and there’s no way to tie the stolen cars to our killer.”
“I think the two of you should go up to Hyde Park tonight,” said Jane. “Tommy here still has some clout. Maybe he can convince his Special Branch colleagues that we’ve got a problem. Maybe you can do the same with the Secret Service.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll go check out the parking lots of the hotels in Poughkeepsie. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try. If I strike out at the hotels I’ll check out as many of the motor lodges as I can heading north. If I find one of the stolen numbers I’ll get word to you.”
Hennessy’s eyebrows furled. “How?”
“Call in to the Plaza every half hour. I’ll leave a number with the front desk if there’s any news.”
“I don’t like the idea of you running into the fellow on your own,” said Barry.
“I’m a big girl, Tommy. I can take care of myself.” She offered up her best smile. “I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”
“That’ll be the day,” Hennessy grunted. He chewed on his lip for a moment. “Maybe the Limey’s right. Maybe one of us should go with you.”
“I need a white knight to protect me. Is that it? And you’re nominating yourself?”
“It’s a good idea, Jane, and you know it.”
“No, Dan, it’s a bad idea. You wouldn’t get five yards into Hyde Park without Tommy’s Scotland Yard identification.”
“Then why doesn’t he go by himself?”
“I doubt he can drive one of our cars. For him it’s the wrong side of the road.”
“Actually, both sides are the wrong side for me,” Barry answered. “I never learned how to drive at all.” He shrugged. “Not much point, living in London.”
“Maybe I’ll teach you when this is all over,” said Jane.
“I’d like that.” Barry smiled.
“If you two’ve finished batting eyelashes at each other, maybe we can get this show on the road.”
“Absolutely,” said Jane. “Just as soon as Pelay brings the sandwiches.”
John Bone stood bare-chested, looking into the mirror in the rear of the gunsmith’s shop. The quilted canvas-and-lead-plate FBI vest he’d worn was draped over the toilet seat a few feet away. Gently prodding with his fingers Bone tested the pain from the three dark bruises on his chest. One of the bullets had struck the vest just beneath the heart. The second had taken him in the left upper ribs, knocking the wind out of him, and the third struck in the upper right chest dangerously close to the neckline of the vest. Had it struck flesh it would have wounded him badly, if not killed him outright.
To the good, however, the shots had served to blow him off his feet and into the boat, sending it over the weir and downstream to safety. It had been a near thing, and after he had stolen the automobile from the parking lot by the pier, it had occurred to him that perhaps discretion really was the better part of valor in this particular case, and the project should be abandoned. It would have been an easy enough thing to make a change of clothing, abandon the car he’d stolen and take the next train to Florida. Within twenty-four hours he could be back in Havana, or in Nassau, and from either destination he could vanish almost instantly, reappearing in any part of the world he chose.
But instead, he had decided to stay and complete his assignment, in which case he would collect the rest of his payment. He had known almost from the beginning that this would likely be his last major operation. Not only did he want to go into retirement on a successful note; he also wanted to go into retirement with as much money as possible. Moving through the gunsmith’s shop, gathering up what he needed to finish things, he decided that while the odds had swung slightly against him, they had not changed radically.
By his calculations they now stood at approximately sixty-forty against. The element of surprise was gone, and from this point on, the royal couple would be even more closely protected. The time element had now been reduced, and because of that, so had the possible targeting opportunities. On the other hand, if it was assumed that he had been killed under the bridge, then the odds would swing tremendously in his favor, since there was no sense in taking precautions against an adversary who no longer existed.
He checked the wristwatch he’d discovered in the bedside table in the back room upstairs. Seven-thirty. The luggage he’d retrieved from the Gramercy the day following his takeover of Lavan’s shop was already in the trunk of the stolen Dodge, as were his small bag containing the handgun he’d decided on, an Austrian Steyr automatic, and detailed maps of the area around the Roosevelt estate he’d picked up in Washington in the event there was a problem at the fair. The silenced British DeLisle carbine, complete with a Leupold scope, was packed in a rifle case, leaning up against one of the display cases by the front door.
Bone decided against taping the bruise on his side, even though he was reasonably sure at least one rib was cracked. The tape would restrict his movements, and the pain was easier to endure than failing his mission tomorrow. He slipped on a fresh shirt, eased himself carefully into his suit jacket and out into the shop, turning off the light in the back room as he left.
He scooped up the screwdriver he’d brought up from the shop, slipped it into the pocket of his jacket and then picked up the rifle case. He went out onto the deserted street, used Lavan’s ring of keys to lock the door behind him, then poked the keys back through the mail slot in the door.
That done, he took the rifle case to the car, put it into the trunk with the rest of his gear, then closed and locked the trunk. Stooping down, he took the screwdriver out of his pocket and used it to remove first the rear and then the front license plates, which he then slipped into his jacket. Bone checked his watch again and then began strolling south down Crosby Street. He turned right on Canal, heading west, and eventually turned north again and into the Village, a man out for an evening stroll, enjoying the first cool breezes of the day.
Bone found what he was looking for in a narrow passage between a shoe factory and a warehouse just off Le Roy Street: an old stake-sided delivery truck, obviously parked there for the night and completely out of sight. He went down the alley and within five minutes he’d removed the plates from the old truck and replaced them with the ones from the stolen Dodge. A half hour after that, with the truck license plates on the car in front of Lavan’s, John Bone headed out of the city.