Five

With captured Villistas being despatched by machine guns in the bullring at Celaya, Slattery received a message to proceed to New York.

‘Somethin’s up,’ Atty said in a doom-laden voice.

All had not gone Obregón’s way at Celaya. He had been struck by a shell splinter which had torn off his right arm, but he was recovering rapidly, and news had arrived that Villa had now lost Guadalajara and looked very much as if he were about to lose more of his strongholds.

With his defeat, his army had broken up and, as Slattery crossed the border to El Paso, the country was beginning to descend once more into anarchy, with soldiers-turned-bandits terrorising lonely farmers, crops and cattle stolen, and smallpox and typhus everywhere. As he climbed aboard the train north he saw Fausto Graf on the station. With America neutral in the war in Europe, it was possible for sympathisers of the warring factions to enter her territory without question and at Kansas City he saw him leave the train and disappear down the platform carrying a suitcase.

New York hadn’t changed much. If anything, it had a greater air of bustle and prosperity than ever, as though the conflict in Europe was putting money into the pockets of Americans of all classes. There seemed to be more motor cars on the streets, more goods in the shops, more lights in the theatres, and there was an atmosphere of excitement, as though everybody in the place had become aware of its importance.

Horrocks was waiting with a taxi. ‘You’ve been brought up here for a week or two,’ he said as they were driven from the station to the hotel where a suite had been booked for Slattery, ‘for good diplomatic reasons. The Germans are becoming too bloody aggressive and, on instructions from London to slow ’em down, we’re working with an American state agent called Midwinter who’s overseeing everything they get up to. The President might believe in peace and goodwill to all men but, fortunately for us, there are a few who trust the Germans less than he does; and Midwinter’s got the job of watchin’ ’em. You’re here because you know a few of those involved.’

‘What about Graf?’ Slattery asked. ‘He’s north of the border. He was on the same train as I was. He left it at Kansas City.’

Horrocks frowned. ‘Interesting,’ he observed. ‘What’s he up to? He only has to take a train to St Louis from Kansas City and he can go either to Washington or come here to New York.’

‘Is Kloss running the show here?’

Horrocks shook his head. ‘No. It’s not Kloss. It’s a new chap called Franz von Rintelen and German sympathisers are crawling out of the woodwork in dozens. Among them our old friend, Huerta.’

‘He’s back! Already?’

‘With his eye firmly fixed on Mexico.’ Horrocks began to feel for his cigarette case, talking as he fished inside his jacket. ‘The Germans are behind him, of course. A comeback for Huerta would be like a red rag to a bull to President Wilson. He’d charge head-down into a worse mess than Veracruz. Who do you reckon would support him?’

‘Villa wouldn’t.’

Horrocks waved a dismissive hand. ‘Villa’s finished.’

‘Don’t you believe it. Panchito will always have a few surprises up his sleeve. But he’d never back Huerta.’

‘Carranza?’

‘If he thought he could use him to gain power and then ditch him afterwards. Huerta might agree for the same reasons – if he could ditch Carranza.’

‘Zapata?’

‘He supports nobody.’

‘Obregón?’

‘He says all Mexican presidents are thieves, but that now he’s got only one hand he couldn’t steal as much as the others. People think he’s just being funny but it’s significant. He might back Huerta to put himself in power. If anybody’s ready to support him, it’s Orozco. He’s anxious to get back among the payrolls.’

Horrocks was silent for a moment. ‘Like a lot of honest men,’ he went on eventually, ‘President Wilson expects everyone else to be honest, too, and with Villa, Zapata, Obregón et al, he’s as lost as a parson in a knocking shop. Because every damn faction down there has its own set of supporters up here, all trying to put on pressure, and the place’s packed with people with German relations.’

Horrocks paused to wave away smoke. ‘With Huerta shoved back into the mess, the Americans would be so fully occupied at home they’d not be much help to us in Britain. Wilson, of course, would like both sides in Europe to kiss and make up, but that’s no good because it would leave Northern France still occupied and there’d be nothing to satisfy the French but Wilson’s prayers.’

He drew on his cigarette for a time in silence, staring into the distance as the taxi manoeuvred in and out of the traffic. ‘We know everything the Huns are doing, of course.’

‘How, for Christ’s sake? We’re not mind readers.’

‘Nearly,’ Horrocks said blandly. ‘Somebody had the bright idea the minute the war began of cutting the German transatlantic cables so that all their messages now have to be sent by the only way open to ’em – wireless. And to wireless, of course, anybody can listen. So we set up listening stations and when intercepts started pouring in we roped in people to decode ’em because we’ve come into possession of their three main code books.’

‘Do the Americans know all this?’

Horrocks looked shocked. ‘Hardly likely to tell them, are we?’

‘Don’t they tell us things?’

‘Oh, yes. They’re very trusting.’

‘Seems a bit one-sided.’

‘That’s the way departments like ours work.’

 

Horrocks arrived early the following morning to pick up Slattery. He was using the same cab, Slattery noticed, and instead of taking a direct route, it seemed to thread its way back and forth among the busy streets, moving past the Flatiron, Woolworth and Singer buildings as if trying to throw off a pursuer.

‘Are we trying to dodge someone?’ Slattery asked.

Horrocks lit a cigarette without bothering to offer his case. ‘We’re always trying to dodge someone,’ he admitted. ‘This is one of our taxis. We have a few.’

They stopped outside a small block of offices near the docks. In a third-floor room Horrocks introduced Slattery to a lean, fair-haired, lantern-jawed man chewing the stub of a dead cigar.

‘Gus Midwinter,’ he said. ‘Here from Washington.’

Midwinter’s grip was hard and he stared at Slattery with eyes that were as blue as cornflowers. He was keeping a sharp eye on the official German attachés in New York, he said. It wasn’t difficult because they all used the German Club and held their conferences in the Manhattan Hotel.

‘With their German-American Bund,’ Horrocks explained, ‘they think they’re winning the war here. But we have Czecho-Slovaks and Austro-Hungarians who had to flee from Austria who’re now naturalised Americans and speak German. One of ’em’s maid to the German ambassador’s wife, and there are four in the Austrian Consulate. Some are waiters, some work in German clubs and firms. They supplied the names of every German reservist trying to reach Europe and we picked the lot up as soon as the ships they were in entered waters under our control.’

‘This country’s too goddam divided,’ Midwinter growled. Horrocks lit another of his expensive cigarettes and placed it carefully in the amber holder. ‘Eastern seaboard sympathetic to us,’ he explained to Slattery. ‘Western seaboard completely indifferent. Midwest solidly behind Germany. They have German breweries there, German restaurants, German traditions, German songs.’

Midwinter scowled and tossed a sheet of paper to the table. It was a report on the German agent, Von Rintelen. He was known to have entered the country on a Swiss passport and was presenting himself as the director of an import-export firm.

‘Speaks excellent English,’ Horrocks said. ‘Lived here for years as representative of one of Germany’s biggest banking organisations.’

‘He’s known to have half a million dollars available,’ Midwinter added darkly. ‘To organise strikes and slowdowns among longshoremen and munitions workers. And he’s a clever bastard, too. He even persuaded some damnfool Russian into letting him provide supplies for the Russian army. But they never arrive. The ships catch fire. The lighters capsize. Have the Germans found some weapon that can penetrate a ship’s hull without making a hole?’ He tossed a report down. ‘Take a look at that. Phoebus. Tramp carrying arms for Russia. Cargo suddenly bursts into flames. Captain can’t explain it. No explosion. Nothing to cause spontaneous combustion. It wasn’t a submarine.’

He bit the end off a cigar with a savage gesture and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. ‘At least we scared off one of Rintelen’s contacts. Guy called Bunze. Sent freighters to sea loaded with coal. But somewhere en route they happened to meet up with German raiders who helped themselves to the coal’.

He pushed a photograph across the table. ‘That’s Rintelen. Taken with one of these new snap cameras outside their Consulate.’

The picture was blown up, grainy and blurred, and showed a group of men talking on the steps. Slattery grinned.

‘I know him,’ he said. ‘I met him in Mexico. He was calling himself Von Raschstadt in those days. I know the other chap, too. The little one in the boater. His name’s Scheele.’

Midwinter nodded. ‘Runs a drugstore in Brooklyn. He’s a chemist.’

‘More than that, I think.’ Slattery explained how he had met Scheele in Nogales and Midwinter was alert at once.

‘What kind of secret weapon?’ he demanded.

‘Lead tube. Size of a cigar. Hot enough to ignite wood or coal.’

‘Or explosives!’ Midwinter slapped his hand down on the desk. ‘Jesus, just the thing to introduce into a cargo of ammunition! And half the sonsabitches working the waterfront here are German or Irish.’ He grinned at Horrocks. ‘You Brits certainly made a lot of enemies.’

‘Burden of Empire,’ Horrocks murmured.

‘One of those things set to go off in four or five days, and you’ve got a ship on fire in the middle of the ocean with nobody guilty. Suppose they’ve put one in the Lusitania.’

The words produced a silence because the 32,000-ton Cunarder was the largest transatlantic liner still in service and was still regularly carrying Americans to Europe.

‘Where is she now?’ Slattery asked.

‘She must be approaching the west coast of Ireland.’

‘The Admiralty regard the west coast of Ireland as of no strategic importance,’ Horrocks pointed out.

‘It is,’ Midwinter snapped, ‘if they sink ships there! Have you seen her supplementary manifests?’

‘Have you?’

Midwinter grinned. ‘I’m not supposed to, but I have. They include cases of shrapnel and cartridges from Remington Small Arms. Enough to be an excuse to have a go at her. You can bet Rintelen knows about ’em.’ He glanced at Slattery. ‘You know friend Huerta. What about the guys who supported him? You know them, too?’

‘The whole boiling of ’em.’

Midwinter lit a large black cigar that made Horrocks move to the other side of the room. ‘The shooting south of the Rio Grande makes a lot more noise in New York than the shooting in Europe,’ Midwinter went on. ‘And, if one of the factions down there sold out to Huerta, there are plenty willing to rally round.’ Suddenly he broke into a smile which was youthful and cherubic and entirely altered his face. ‘Unfortunately, there’s one thing they ain’t got – neither Rintelen nor Huerta or any of their supporters – and that’s security. They’re bein’ watched night and day. By me. By Sholto here. And now by you. Also by Department of Justice agents, Carrancista agents, Villa agents, Obregón agents. There are so many of the bastards, they’re fallin’ over each other.’

 

They dined together at Lüchow’s on 14th Street.

‘German,’ Midwinter observed, gesturing about him. ‘I reckon, if you could investigate ’em all, you’d find the goddam place was full of German spies every night of the week.’ He glared about him savagely. ‘What’s wrong with ’em?’ he said. ‘They’re naturalised Americans. Isn’t that good enough for ’em? Jesus, I’m German! Born Gustav Midwinder in Hamburg. But I’m American now and getting all the benefits there are from being American. So why do all these bastards claim to be German? All I ever wanted to be was a Yankee Doodle Dandy.’

Midwinter had an appointment at the British Consulate and Horrocks was due to call at Cunard’s, the owners of the Lusitania. As they separated. Slattery walked down Broadway and studied the posters outside Moore’s Theatre.

‘Charles Frohman,’ the posters announced, ‘presents Magdalena Graf in Der Zigeunerbaron.’ They had Strauss’ name in large letters and had retained the German title instead of the English one, The Gypsy Baron. Below were the names of the most important members of the supporting cast. Below them still had been pasted strips announcing that officials of the German-American Bund would attend the opening night and that German anthems would be sung.

On an impulse, Slattery went into the theatre and, in exchange for a dollar bill, found Magdalena’s address. A house had been rented for her on Fifth Avenue and Jesús showed him in with a wide grin, only for him to be shooed away immediately by a horde of women, all of whom seemed to be holding dresses or bolts of cloth and have their mouths full of pins.

Then Magdalena saw him from the other side of the salon and pushed everybody aside to reach him. She was swathed in blue silk that trailed along the floor as she moved, followed on her knees by a woman with a tape measure and a pin cushion.

‘Fitz!’

As he put his arms round her it was like clutching a hedgehog and she gave a gurgle of laughter.

‘You’ve come at a bad time,’ she said. ‘I’m in the middle of fittings, and I’m too nervous to be normal. Frohman’s put everything he’s got into the show. It’s absolutely splendid.’

‘Have dinner with me.’

‘When we know whether it’ll be a success or not. I’m too much on edge at the moment. What are you doing here? Jesús has taken care of everything. He’s a very clever boy and so proud of his name now it’s the same as mine. I’ve made it official. After this show there’ll be another. Frohman told me so in his suite at the Knickerbocker Hotel. He’s gone to London to see what’s being put on, but when he comes back he’s going to start thinking about it straightaway.’

She pushed a book of newspaper cuttings at him. ‘Look what they’re saying about me,’ she said.

Stutzmann hadn’t hesitated to tell the press of the wound she had received at Veracruz and the newspapermen had made the most of it: ‘Singer’s Heroism’, ‘Yankee Diva’s Courage.’ Like the Mexicans, they had twisted her background to suit themselves and were making it appear she was American born and bred.

‘Things become more hysterical with every hour that passes,’ she was saying now. ‘You never think you’re going to be ready in time. But we open on May the twentieth even if I have to appear in my underwear. Hermann will be here two days from now to attend to everything. Frohman’s a wonderful man to work for. It’s a pity he’s gone to Europe but he had to see the latest Barrie show with music by a new man, Jerome Kern.’ She was chattering wildly, in a state of near-hysteria with excitement and tiredness. ‘We’ll go to see Daddy Long Legs together. It’s the longest-running show in town. Or The Celebrated Case. That’s a Frohman show, too.’

She gave him a quick kiss and pushed him to the door. ‘Now you must go, or I shall be in trouble and so will you.’

He paused in the hall and looked back at her. ‘Have you ever thought of giving up the stage, Magdalena?’ he asked.

Her reply was immediate, and in the same near-hysterical tone. ‘A singer can’t rest on her laurels. And I enjoy the smell of powder and paint, and the roses that appear in the dressing room, and all the–’ She stopped dead and looked steadily at him, all the enthusiasm suddenly gone. ‘I could give it up tomorrow,’ she said.

‘Never, Madame!’ The dresser, who was chasing her round the room on her knees, shook her head. ‘The great roles will come soon and you’ll remember them all your life.’

Magdalena nodded and smiled, then she looked at Slattery as he stood by the door. ‘Be there on the twentieth. I shall look for you in the front row of the stalls. Put on your evening dress. Look beautiful for me. Come and wish me luck.’

 

When Slattery returned to his hotel, he had a drink sent to his room and lay on the bed sipping it, his thoughts on Magdalena. It was long after midnight when he fell asleep, and at some point towards morning he began to dream that guns were firing. Abruptly, he sat up. The hammering came from his door, and outside he could hear Horrocks’ voice.

Stumbling across the room, still half-asleep in the early daylight, he found Horrocks fuming in the corridor. He had cut himself shaving and there was a piece of tissue paper stuck to his cheek. Without a word, he placed a hand on Slattery’s chest and shoved him back into the room.

‘Give me a cigarette,’ he said. ‘I’ve run out.’

Slattery tossed a pack across and Horrocks lit one. He drew the smoke down in an enormous gulp so that Slattery half expected it to come out of the bottoms of his trousers. His hand was shaking.

‘What in Christ’s name happened?’ Slattery asked. ‘Have the Germans won the war?’

‘They might have,’ Horrocks snapped. ‘They’ve sunk the Lusitania.’