CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Tyrone chauffeured them to the public library. Marvia and Lindsey went through valley phone books. There were a wealth of Roberts, too many by far to be useful without a task force which they didn’t have.

But they found a listing for Joachim K. Doenitz in Van Nuys. Lindsey said, “How much do you want to bet that the K stands for Karl?”

Marvia said, “I don’t want to bet. What do you want to do?”

“Beard the lion in his den. Let’s head for Van Nuys.”

They took the San Diego Freeway northward, cut through the Hollywood Hills, left the smoggy Los Angeles Basin in favor of the smoggy San Fernando Valley. Tyrone Plum drove. The day was miserable. It was raining out, another of those Gulf of Alaska storms that were drenching the state of California. Even though the air was wet, the rain seemed to have no effect on the pollution that saturated the atmosphere. There was still enough light in the sky to see that it was brown rather than blue or gray.

The traffic was atrocious. Lindsey breathed a prayer of thanks for Tyrone and his automotive skills, as Tyrone piloted the Lincoln through columns of Toyotas and Mercedes and Fords and Saabs crowded bumper to bumper as they sped through the San Fernando Valley at sixty-five miles per hour.

There was one advantage to the trip from Hollywood to Van Nuys. They had time to plan their strategy. If the Doenitz they were looking for was the right Doenitz—a lead to Joseph Roberts—they would have to be ready to move.

Marvia Plum sat in the passenger seat beside her brother; Lindsey sat behind them, leaning forward so they could converse.

Tyrone said, “Tell me again, now, who was this duck?”

“Admiral Doenitz, Karl Doenitz, was the Führer of Nazi Germany after Hitler killed himself. Morton Karl Kleiner had a shrine to him in his home in Petaluma. The Hollywood High School yearbook entry for Joe Roberts is all full of donut puns. Donuts—Doenitz. My guess is that Roberts’ real name is Joseph Robert Doenitz. He dropped the Doenitz but somehow the other kids found out about it and they wouldn’t let go. Typical kid behavior.”

“And you think this Admiral Doenitz was Joe Roberts’ grandpa?”

“Something like that. The Kleiners were from Germany. Old Otto Kleiner’s younger sister, Brunhilde, went back to Germany in 1931, two years before Hitler came to power. She never turned up again. Otto had a few letters from her, then nothing. According to Iskowitz—a researcher who interviewed Otto Kleiner—Brunhilde was a great beauty. And she didn’t look particularly Jewish.”

A huge Bentley swooped past the Lincoln. Tyrone cursed. “Shit, I could never live in this town. This place is terrible.”

Lindsey continued his story. “Doenitz wasn’t much of a Nazi, he was a career navy man. He might well have been on leave, met Brunhilde Kleiner. Maybe they had a love affair. Of course he never married Brunhilde, he had an official family. But if there was a child—a son—he might have been Joachim Doenitz. Our boy in Van Nuys.”

“I thought the Nazis were crazy, they wanted to kill all the Jews. The ones they didn’t kill wound up in concentration camps, and they only survived because the war ended before the Nazis could kill them all.”

“Not so. You ought to talk to my friend Eric Coffman some time. He’s a scholar and he’s read up on the subject. Says he has to teach his children so they’ll know their history. The Nazis gave some Jews special treatment. People with valuable talent, scientists and a few doctors, the Nazis were willing to use them. And an admiral could certainly get his mistress onto the special treatment list. Or maybe—who knows—Brunhilde managed to pass as Aryan. I don’t know. That’s what I want to find out.”

Tyrone tilted his head. Lindsey could see Tyrone’s face in the mirror. Tyrone was grinning broadly. “Could be,” he chuckled. “Could be. But you’re stretching things a whole lot there, Hobart.”

“We’ll see soon enough.”

“So what’s the connection between all of these folks and the stolen car? And didn’t you tell me there was a murder in this, too? I think you watch too much TV, Hobart.”

“There was a fortune missing since the 1930s. And old Otto Kleiner was so upset about the stolen Duesenberg. Maybe he just loved the car, I can see how it would have meant a lot to him. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe the fortune was hidden in the Dusie in some way. Old bank books or stock certificates stashed in the upholstery, or diamonds or gold, something like that. I think that was why the car was stolen, not for its value as a car, but for what was hidden in it.”

“And Roberts knew about this, and nobody else did?”

“I don’t know that either. My guess—it’s just a guess—is that Otto hid the money and told his sister about it. When she went back to Germany, that would leave only Otto knowing where the fortune was hidden.”

Over his shoulder, Tyrone said, “I’m with you so far.”

Lindsey went on, “Say Brunhilde did have a son by Admiral Doenitz. Brunhilde lived long enough to pass on the secret of the Kleiner fortune to her son. Somewhere along the line, Brunhilde disappears from the story. Probably dead. But her son knows about the money. He immigrates to America. Even though Admiral Doenitz never married his mother, the son takes the name Doenitz.”

“Wow, this is like a TV show by that guy Ludlum!” Tyrone hit the brakes to avoid rear-ending a Citroen. “We’re not up to Joe yet, are we?”

“Not Joseph. His father, Joachim. He settles in Hollywood. I don’t know how he got to America, but maybe he went to the army after the war and convinced them that his mother was American and he had a claim on American citizenship. He wound up in Hollywood. Married, had a son, Joseph Robert Doenitz. Young Joe didn’t want to carry around a name with Nazi associations, especially not with ambitions in the film industry. So he dropped the Doenitz.”

“Wait a minute,” Marvia interrupted. “You’re telling me that this guy Joachim came to America, to Hollywood of all places, and used the name Doenitz? What was he doing, looking for a necktie party? Nazis couldn’t have been popular anywhere at the end of the war, but in Hollywood? Please!”

“No, you wait a minute, Marvia. Pardon me for citing Eric again, but he’s put me onto some interesting history over the years. Hitler persecuted a lot of people, not just Jews. Communists, Gypsies, liberals, Catholics. Hitler was born a Catholic himself but he broke with the church and tried to bring back the old Nordic gods at one point—really bizarre stuff.”

A motorcyclist roared past the Lincoln. The driver was wearing a replica Nazi battle helmet.

“There were thousands of refugees flooding into the country,” Lindsey resumed. “And maybe Doenitz wasn’t such a distinctive name. How many Carters do we have who aren’t related to Jimmy Carter? I’d guess that Joachim went around telling people that he’d fled the Nazis, he was one of the good Doenitzes, not those horrible Nazi Doenitzes, and all the while he was laughing inside at the stupid Americans who were so kind and sympathetic to him.”

Marvia said, “I guess. It all sounds weird to me, but I guess it could be. But where does Joe Roberts come into this?”

“Somehow Joachim got to America, okay? Maybe convinced the army in Germany that his mother was American, whatever. He marries, either in Germany and brings his bride with him or someone he meets in America, whichever. There’s a son, Joseph Robert Doenitz. But Joe doesn’t have his daddy’s background, he doesn’t go for this secret Nazi stuff, maybe he doesn’t even know about it. But he’s living in Hollywood, there are tons of Jewish kids in his school, he doesn’t want to get tarred with the Nazi brush. Especially not with ambitions to get into the movie industry. So: exit Joseph Robert Doenitz, enter Joe Roberts, all American kid!”

Marvia shook her head. “How could he get away with that? He was just a high school kid. Changing records, changing his name—and his father didn’t know about it?”

“Maybe he did know.”

“And he let him get away with it?”

Lindsey squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them with his hand. “I don’t know, Marvia. Who knows how close tabs Joachim kept on Joseph? Maybe the kid pulled the wool over his old man’s eyes. Or maybe he let him in on what he was doing, fooling those stupid Americans, climbing to the top in a town full of Jews, wouldn’t that be a rich one?”

“But what about the donut jokes? They prove that the kids knew Joseph’s real name.”

“Yes. And they went along with it, too. Who can figure out high school kids? Maybe he gave them the good-Doenitz-bad-Doenitz story too.”

Marvia said, “Okay. That’s no nuttier than anything else in this case. You’re really making me strain to believe this, but I guess it’s all possible. You sure can pick ’em, Bart, I’ll say that for you.”

Tyrone said, “Right. So can you, sister. And in the meantime, what about the car?”

“Well, Joe learned about this legendary Duesenberg and the missing fortune from his dad. He made it his business to move up north, near the old Kleiner homestead. He got into the mansion and got his shot at the car by joining the Smart Set.”

“Amazing. Marvia, I see what you like about this guy. He’s got a head on his shoulders. But, Hobart, what about the murder?”

“Morton Karl Kleiner was Otto’s grandson. That makes him Joe Roberts’ second cousin or something like that. Genealogists have all their rules. Anyhow, Morton Karl Kleiner learned about the Doenitz connection, ran into some rednecks up around Petaluma, and got into a Nazi gang. He probably never knew about the missing fortune and the money hidden in the Duesenberg because he never made any fuss about it that I know of. He just kept pestering the old man to give him cash. But.…”

Lindsey pressed his good hand against his eyes. “Oh, my gosh!”

Marvia turned in her seat. “Bart, what is it?”

“Joe Roberts knew about the fortune. Morton Karl Kleiner didn’t know about the fortune. But Joe didn’t know that Morton didn’t know! Do you see what that means?”

“What?”

“Joe Roberts killed Morton Karl Kleiner! He thought Morton knew about the money in the car, he was afraid if the fortune turned up Morton would get it away from him because he was a direct descendent of Otto. It was Joe Roberts who clouted Morton over the head and threw him in Lake Merritt.”

Marvia said, “Wow, wow, wow. There’s a lot of suppositions in there, but it makes sense. It fits. Oh, my gosh. We’d better get back to Oakland and have a talk with Lieutenant High.”

Tyrone said, “Gonna scrub our visit to Joe’s daddy?”

Lindsey thought Marvia might suggest exactly that, so he didn’t give her a chance. “No way! My job is still to get that car back, and this is my chance to do that. If you guys want to bail out and head for home, I’ll see you there.”

“Not me. Sis?”

A beat. Then, “I won’t quit.”

Tyrone pulled the Lincoln to the curb in front of the Doenitz house. It was a miniature ranch house, the kind that sprang up by the tens of thousands in the years after World War II. Bing Crosby had sung about it; Lindsey had heard the record often enough on oldies stations. I’m gonna settle down and never more roam, and make the San Fernando Valley my home. Now, almost forty-five years later, the San Fernando Valley had become the world’s prize example of urban sprawl and suburban blight.

“You go ’head, Hobart. Marvia, you going with Hobart? Okay. I’ll scout around a little. See you guys later.”

Lindsey and Marvia walked up the path to the house. Lindsey sounded the doorbell. There was a pause, then a voice, then another voice. The sounds of a scuffle. Three voices altogether, two of men and one of a woman.

Finally the door swung open.

A white-haired man stared at Lindsey and Marvia Plum. He stood tall and thin. He wore a white turtleneck shirt, a dark blue blazer with brass buttons and sharply creased slacks. He had a yachting cap on his head, tilted rakishly to the side.

Lindsey tried to remember where he’d seen an outfit like that. He had it—that was standard Nazi U-boat captain’s gear. He’d seen it in a hundred old movies. Corvette K-225. Yes. No Nazi regalia here, but white-hair had the look. He definitely had the look.

Lindsey said, “Mr. Doenitz?”

“Ja?”

“I’m looking for Joseph Roberts. He’s your son, isn’t he?”

From behind the white-haired man a woman of the same age said, “Tell him nothing, Joachim. Nothing!”

Joachim Doenitz said, “I will tell him what I choose. Who are these people? Look! This cripple, probably a Jew. And an African. Hah!” To Lindsey, “What do you want?”

“I told you, sir.” He tried to see past the couple, into the room. Their house was ordinary enough, inside and out. Couch, easy chair, coffee table. A cheap reproduction of some classic painting on the wall. A TV. Lindsey had almost expected a duplicate of the Nazi den in Petaluma, but there was nothing like that here. An archway led from the living room into a buff-colored hall. “I’m looking for Joseph Roberts, the television writer. I believe this is his home.”

He heard a stirring from deeper in the house. He wished that Marvia were in uniform, that she had a gun on her hip. Even Tyrone would provide some reinforcement, but Tyrone was not in sight.

“Why do you ask me for this Roberts? You know my name. How did you know me? Why did you come here?”

“I know your son. Mrs. Doenitz—” He appealed to the gray-haired woman. She had emerged from behind her husband. Now she stood beside him. Rimless glasses, house dress, apron. She knew her place.

But she said, “He is my son. He is our son. He doesn’t want them to know who he is. The Jews run that business. You run America, don’t you? The Jews and the Africans. But that will change.” She turned to her husband. “Show them! Get rid of them!”

She started to slam the door on them, but Lindsey stuck his foot in the way. Yes, hadn’t he seen Jack Carson do that in some oldie? Was it The Good Humor Man? Lindsey shouldered the door open, praying that he wouldn’t injure his one good arm.

Here were the elderly couple, but he’d heard three voices. There was a flash of movement—actually, more like a shadow—in the archway. The elderly Doenitz ran for the archway, surprisingly agile for a man his age.

Lindsey ran after him.

Doenitz ducked through another doorway, Lindsey in hot pursuit. And here it was—the Nazi den. Red and black swastika flags on the walls. Portraits of Hitler and Admiral Doenitz and other bigwigs. Displays of military regalia.

Doenitz threw something at Lindsey. It bounced off the cast on his shoulder. A wave of pain shot through him. He saw what Doenitz had thrown—a hand grenade! Lindsey launched himself backward through the doorway he’d entered. He collided with Marvia Plum, shouted something at her and got her headed back toward the front of the house. The older woman—Mrs. Doenitz—ran ahead of her.

Lindsey waited for the explosion. And waited. And waited.

Finally he started back.

Joachim Doenitz pounced on Lindsey. He held a bayonet in his hand, held it upraised for a moment, then plunged it into Lindsey’s chest.

Nothing happened.

Doenitz staggered backward, slid to a sitting position against the wall. His wife pushed past Marvia and past Lindsey, took the rubber bayonet from her husband and helped him to his feet. She picked up the toy hand grenade and returned the grenade and the bayonet to their places on display.

Mrs. Doenitz turned to Lindsey and Marvia. “Jews! Africans! Communists! We’ll show you yet. Now, get out. Leave the old man to his dreams. Leave us in peace. Get out of my house this minute.” She put her arms around Joachim Doenitz and began to murmur to him in German.

There was a roar from the alley that ran past the house to a single-car garage. Lindsey and Marvia ran to the front door, stood watching as a 1928 Duesenberg SJ Phaeton rolled past the house. Lindsey could see Tyrone Plum’s dark face leaning over the wheel. Joseph Roberts ran after the car.

The car turned west on the street in front of the Doenitz house and started to pick up speed. In its wake, Joe Roberts ran and shouted, waving his arms like a Keystone Kop.

Lindsey grabbed Marvia. “Quick! You have the other keys.” He shoved her toward the Lincoln, ran to the passenger door while she unlocked the car and climbed behind the wheel. They headed down the street, putting distance between themselves and the Duesenberg, Tyrone, and Joseph Roberts.

* * * *

After nightfall the sky cleared. Marvia pulled the Lincoln off 101 south of San Luis Obispo and headed westward on highway 1 to Morro Bay. It was off-season. They had no trouble getting a motel room with a balcony overlooking the bay itself and the huge rocks that rose like titanic eggs a hundred yards offshore.

They washed and changed and walked to a seafood restaurant for dinner. Lindsey didn’t know whether he’d been through drama or farce.

Marvia had ordered a Bloody Mary; Lindsey, a Margarita. When the drinks came he took a long sip of his. He realized that he’d been drawn right as a bow string. Marvia said, “It’s always fun when you invite me on a trip, I’ll say that, Bart.”

“I didn’t figure on meeting a crazed Nazi.”

“You think that’s what he is? I mean, seriously crazed?”

“I think so. So much for my theory about Joachim passing for an anti-Nazi refugee.”

“I don’t know about that.” Marvia ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “That was a long time ago. Forty, forty-five years. Maybe he lived that double life for most of those years. He’s retired now. Maybe he’s going back to his youth, to the 1940s.”

“Like my mother.”

“Well, not exactly. But—sort of. You saw, he still kept up the pretence, that yachting outfit, the plain room. He still kept the Nazi stuff hidden. Of course, his wife was as bad as he was. But I still can’t see the Kleiners, Jews, becoming Nazis. First Morton Karl Kleiner, now Joachim Doenitz.”

“Yeah. I asked Dr. Bernstein about that when I found out about Morton Kleiner. Another one of my professor friends, another Smart Set person. She has some kind of theory about reaction formation and oppressed people identifying with their oppressors rather than their own kind. It kind of makes sense. Say, don’t some light-skinned blacks pass for whites?’

Marvia hesitated before she replied. “Not as many as used to. Black pride, all of that. But it still happens.”

“And do they ever turn on other blacks? They have to be whiter than white, so they join the Klan, that kind of thing?”

“Yes. And you think these Kleiners, with their Doenitz connections, totally denied their Jewishness and became anti-semites?”

“Something like that.”

“Huh. Hard to believe. But I guess in my business I get to see everything. Your business too, eh?”

Their food came. Marvia ate a huge shrimp salad. Lindsey had sea bass. They drank coffee afterward and went to bed.

Lindsey woke up later, felt the bed with his good arm, then sat up. Marvia wasn’t there.

His eyes were adjusting now, or he was just getting wider awake. The room was on the second floor of the motel, and there was a balcony outside, facing the dark bay and the huge rocks. The Pacific storm had finally passed over, heading inland toward the San Gabriel Mountains, and there was a bright moon.

Lindsey crossed the room and stepped onto the balcony.

Marvia Plum was there, looking out over the bay. The air was cold and moist. Marvia was naked. Without turning her face or body, she reached sideways toward Bart and took his hand. He was going to ask what she was doing, but he decided that she would tell him if she chose.

She was breathing deeply of the night air. The bay was almost perfectly quiet, a few low waves lapping at the beach. There was a gentle wind, not quite as cold as the still air, but Lindsey was thoroughly chilled. How long had Marvia been standing there, and how cold must she be?

She turned to him and pressed her face against the muscle on the uninjured side of his chest. He moved back into their room, drawing her after him. They climbed into bed together.

He said, “Are you all right? Are you frozen?’

She said, “Let’s just snuggle.”

Still later he said, “Marvia, I really want to marry you.”

He could feel her shake her head. “No.”

“Is it—the things we talked about before?”

“No, Bart.”

“Is it your ex-husband?”

“It’s Jamie.”

“Jamie’s a fine boy. I’ll do my best for him.”

“I know you will.” He felt her mouth on his chest, warm. Maybe morning would never come, maybe this night would last forever. “It isn’t your fault, Bart. But—he’s confused enough. He knows he has a father somewhere. A black father. He knows I’m his mother. He has a good home with my parents, a good role model.”

“Marcus is a terrific guy.”

“I don’t want to change that. I don’t want to upset him.”

“But—” He didn’t know what else to say.

“Just leave it, Bart. Please. I can’t marry you. You know your situation. I know mine. We can’t. It wouldn’t work.”

“Marvia.”

“Let’s just leave it, okay?”

He ran his good hand through her hair, down her naked back, feeling each vertebra. She pressed closer to him.

They had a good breakfast and headed back to 101. Just south of Salinas, the cellular phone burbled. Lindsey picked it up, astonished. Who had this number? Maybe it was the rental company, but the car wasn’t overdue and he’d already planned to drop it off at their Oakland office.

It was Tyrone Plum.

“How you two doing, Hobart? You better be nice to my little sister, there, or you’ll be one sorry dude.”

“Where are you? What happened?”

“I just drove up I-5, cut back over. Been here for hours. Of course, I’m not a lover bird. What you two do, stop over at some hot sheet palace?”

Lindsey smiled. “Something like that. Listen—you drove all night, you drove all the way to Oakland and nobody stopped you? Didn’t Roberts phone in a report?”

“You’re talking to an old repo man, Hobart. I knew he wouldn’t phone in any report. He had a stolen car. I just repo’d it from him. What’s to report?”

Lindsey shook his head. “I guess you’re right. Tyrone, where’s the car now?”

“Well, I took it over to the Kleiner Mansion. Your friend Ms. Smith called OPD, got a Sergeant Gutiérrez. He came over, looked at the car, said they really ought to impound it, but he didn’t want to put it in the ’pounding lot. So he put a police seal on the garage. Car’s right here where it belongs.”

Lindsey said, “Tyrone, you are a wonder. Okay, we’ll be back in a few more hours. Where will you be?”

“I think I’ll go over to Mom and Dad’s on Bonar. Marvia knows the number. Give her my love, Hobart. And you be good to her.”

Marvia smiled at Lindsey. “I heard enough of that. We have some business with Gutiérrez, okay. But we have business with Lieutenant High, too!”