CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Tarrant County Elmwood Sanatorium, outside Fort Worth, Texas, September 31, 1962, evening

After enduring the irate nurse’s scolding and seeing to it that their old and sick friend was as comfortable as possible, Antoine and Jérôme bade Michaele a reluctant farewell, then drove quickly across the desolate highway thirty-three miles to Love Field in Dallas. No transatlantic flights were available at that time of night;so, Antoine had to make emergency and incredibly expensive arrangements to take the two of them alone on a TWA flight to London. The cost was not Antoine’s main concern; the attention they would stir up with their extravagance was. At least Michaele was out of it for now.

When they arrived back at the corporate offices of European International Conglomerate in London, the two men were greeted with an urgent telegram message from Nicolai Andreavich Putansky russkaya mafiya under boss to Leonid Zaslavskevich Breslava. Breslava was the Pakhan of the vory v zakone [thieves-in-law] and Putansky was Breslava’s brigadier.

The telegram message was simple: “We have information regarding the whereabouts of Lt. Gen. Dimitri Sobrieski, as per your request. Stop. Contact us soonest possible. Stop.”

It was six-thirty in London and nine-thirty in Moscow. Antoine assumed the chieftains of the russkaya mafiya would be just starting an evening of rough drinking and gluttony. His call would not be a disturbance. He called Nicolai first and got no answer; so, he called the Pakhan and was surprised to get an answer on the first ring.

“Who is this?” came the gravelly voice.

“Leonid Zaslavskevich, this is Laird Eagen in London. I received an urgent telegram from Nicolai Andreavich. What do I need to know?”

Every message or service between the two men was a matter of goods, money, or services transfer: goods for goods, money for money, services—including transmittal of information—for services. It was a good, clean, and efficient business arrangement that left nothing to the imagination or to mistakes.

“I am glad you called before the evening is over. We have a hurry-up situation here, one you have told me is of primary importance to you.”

Braslava was speaking English in case anyone was listening in. He had little confidence in the English ability of the KGB watchers who hounded him.

“I just got back from the US. It would be best to make this as direct as possible, Leonid Zaslavskevich, because my brain may be rather foggy from jet lag.”

“I understand perfectly, Laird. I hate to fly. The message is that we have a time and a location for the man who interests you. He will be in a meeting at the Moscow Military District headquarters, A-252, Chapayevskiy Per., Dom 14, at 1800 hours Moscow time tomorrow, and tomorrow only. We have determined a location across the street in an apartment building which should prove to be very useful. Everyone who enters or leave the district headquarters must use the main entry facing onto Chapayevskiy for the building.”

Antoine took hurried notes.

“Any problem providing us the necessary equipment?”

“Not really, my friend; but you realize that all of this will be very costly.”

“How costly?”

“Thirty million rubles for expenses and an additional ten million for our … efforts.”

Antoine did a quick bit of math. He had just been in the US; so, he was thinking in terms of the US dollar. Thirty rubles to one dollar—$1.3 million dollars. It was steep, but not really a problem. It would be something of a problem to raise that much overnight.

“Will that include a safe exit from the USSR, Leonid Zaslavskevich?”

“Of course. Any place you want to go.”

“I had not prepared for such a quick response to our request. I will have difficulty raising the money tonight, but our Swiss bankers can wire the funds tomorrow morning. Will that be acceptable?”

“Of course, my friend. We operate on a basis of trust. I will alert my bankers to anticipate the funds in the morning. I presume you will leave on what the Americans call the ‘red-eye’ tonight?”

“Yes. I have some familiarity with the Aeroflot schedule. We should be able to arrive at the secret Sheremetyevo Airport early tomorrow with a little influence from you.”

“Until then,” Leonid said and hung up.

Antoine put in a call to Geneva, Switzerland, to the private line of the CEO of Caussidière Enterprises International, François Gaspard Caussidière.

“I hope your venture in the Western Hemisphere went satisfactorily, Mein Freund,” François said as soon as his secretary told him who was calling.

“It did. The second half of the mission has presented itself much sooner than expected. I will need you to wire $1.3 million to our associate in Moscow tomorrow morning at the opening of business. I believe you already have the account number.”

“Are we still dealing with Moscow Narodny Bank Ltd?”

“Yes.”

“A wire for that amount will be forwarded from UBS to Narodny as soon as the Geneva branch opens.”

“Good. Take your usual fee from the account but not from the $1.3 million. Understood?”

“Of course. Will that be all?”

“For today, but we have big plans developing in our South American areas of interest.”

“As always, I will remain at your service.”

§§§§§§

Fort Worth PD and Tarrant County sheriff’s deputies arrived in the parking lot of the Tarrant County Elmwood Sanatorium less than twenty minutes after the first calls were received. There were four cars in all, and the law enforcement officers got out and stood in the oppressive heat for a short pre-raid conference. Sgt. Billie Wayne McAfee was the acknowledged lead until the rangers or fibbies got there.

Billie Wayne had been a Fort Worth PD cop since he was eighteen years old. He was now fifty-six going on seventy after a hard working, hard playing, and hard drinking life. His sun-bronzed face showed a deeply etched line for every near miss and long night of his career. He wore an old sweat-stained straw cowboy hat and a pair of badly scuffed boots with old-fashion high heels and pointy toes capped with steel protectors. He was still wearing the same snap button bright red cowboy shirt he had on yesterday. He had the dunlop syndrome—his belly dunlop over his belt. His facial stubble was three days old, and his eyes showed a considerable amount of red from a night or two of carousing.

“We don’t know for real what we ah gonna encounta in this heah situation. No use us gettin’ all shot up because we don’ know what’s what. How ‘bout you two fine depities go on round the back, and Dayne and me’ll check out the front. Give a sqwak on ya’ll’s horns if ya’ll see somethin’ ya don’ lak,” Billie Wayne suggested.

To get along, Fort Worth PD and Tarrant County sheriffs did not give each other orders, just suggestions.

The two teams split up. The deputies gave a short call indicating that everything was clear.

“Me and Dayne’re fixin’ ta go in the front. Ya’ll go in the back. Say in thirty seconds.”

“Copy.”

Both front and rear entries into the sanatorium were locked. Billie Wayne knocked several times, but could not get anyone to come and open the doors.

He called the department to let them know they were going in and to warn the FBI and all other reinforcements that their entrance into the old sanatorium to arrest the possible killer of the Army officer was in progress. Dayne was larger than Billy Wayne, and he kicked in the door. He and Billy Wayne entered the facility, guns drawn. The commotion of knocking in the door brought the attention of a busy nurses’ aide who was passing out the day’s doses of isoniazid. He rushed out of the ward towards the front door where the noise was coming from and nearly got himself shot for his efforts.

“Hands in the air! Keep ‘em where we can see ‘em,!” yelled Dayne, pointing his revolver at the aide’s heart.

“Who’re you, guys?” the aide asked, less excited than the two law officers once he realized they were cops.

“Fot Wuth po-lice and sheriff’s depahtment. Who’s in charge heah?”

“That’d be Nurse Digby. Ruth Digby. She’s in a patient’s room workin’ to clean him up.”

“Put ya’lls hands down and take us to him. Let’s all keep rat quite, y’heah. We gotta surprise for a killah comin’ up.”

They made their way down the poorly lit hallway. Paint was peeling of the walls and ceiling, and patches of plywood showed through worn linoleum.

“This here’s where Mizz Digby is, Officers. Want me to announce ya’ll?”

“No, thanks. We’ll take it from heah. Ya’ll get yuhsef back to the wahd like nuthin’s goin’ on. Don’t let on we’re heah. Awrat?”

“Yes, suh.”

Billy Wayne knocked softly on the door to avoid startling the head evening nurse.

“Weah in the middle a thengs in heah. Can ya’ll wait a bit?”

“Afraid not, Mizz Digby. Weah frum the po-lice. We need ta talk with ya. We got a urgent mattah goin’ on.”

As soon as Billy Wayne gave his order to the nurse, he regretted it and wished that he and Dayne had had the good grace to step out of the room. The stench was overwhelming—worse than a rural privy.

“Pe-u!” said Dayne. “That’d gag a maggot.”

“So, what’s so impotant, Officers?” Nurse Digby asked, more than a little perturbed at the interruption.

“We have information that a professional killah might just be hidin’ in ona the Elmwood buildin’s. Ah ya’ll aweah of any patient comin’ inta the establishment coughin’ a lotta blood this evenin’, Ma’am?”

“This place is full of patients coughin’ up blood, most frum the white plague, Officah. Could be in any ona these waitin’ rooms for death. Anythin’ bettah ta go on?”

“Man wuz probly outta the hospital mosta the day, oh mebbe he come in fresh today oah yestiddy. Cain’t be shua about that. What we’a shua ‘bout, though, is that he was bleedin’ purty bad—coughin’ up big clarks a blood, usin’ lottsa hankies oah toilet papah.”

“We did get a kinda strange one yestiddy oah the day befoah. Name wuz somethin’ lak a fancy English gentaman, wouldn’ ya know. C’mon ovah ta the desk, an’ ah’ll do ma best ta find the one ah mean.”

She paused then opened the door to the room with the fragrant patient and called into the nurses’ aide, “Sally Rose, honey, sorry;but ah haveta go with the po-lice men foah a bit. Finish up, please, then we’ll havta do oah rounds. Be a bit late tonaght, ah’m afraid.”

The law enforcement officers followed the tired-looking nurse to her desk. She opened a metal medical record holder and ran her finger down a list of names.

“This heah’s the one ya’ll maght be a lookin’ foah. Take a gander at this heah name.”

They read “Dennis Cunningham Lord Downfort.”

“Sound’s lak a pimp name,” Dayne said. “How old’s this fella?”

“Look’s oldah than he probly is, Deputy. My guess is that he’s pushin’ sixty, but he looks more like eighty with one foot in the grave and t’other on a banana peel. We hadda give him morphine to calm down that god-awful cougha his. He don’ look lak much uv a killah—moah lak a victim.”

“Let’s go and see this famous English Lo-ad Downfort. Ya’ll stand back frum the doah when we git theah, Mizz Digby,” said Billy Wayne.

“Whatevah ya’ll say, Sergeant.”

She took the police officers to the next-to-the-last door in the hallway. It was fairly dark there owing to the absence of the overhead light.

“Sorry, ya’ll. County don’ keep the place up all that well nowah days,” Nurse Digby said by way of a halfhearted apology.

Wasn’t her fault.

The officers drew their revolvers. Billy Wayne motioned to the nurse to stay back. Dayne softly turned the doorknob and then flung the door open wide. The two armed men rushed in to the room with Billy Wayne moving to the right, and Dayne to the left. It was evident when they got into the fully lit room that they could have ridden horses and given banshee yells without waking up the patient. He was almost comatose but breathing easily, with only occasional soft coughing productive of bubbles of bright red blood. He was thin—emaciated—and had the sallow complexion of a man about to meet his maker and glad of it.

“Don’ look all that dangerous ta me,” Dayne observed, and Billy Wayne nodded.

“Exceptin’ fa gettin’ the red snappers on ya frum ona the poah souls lak this here one. His bedroom mate is likely ta heah him coughin’ hissef ta exhaustion and then seein’ an empty bed with clean sheets in the mahnin’.”

“Any uthahs coughin’ up lottsa blood lak this’un, Ma’am?” Billy Wayne asked Nurse Digby.

“We gotta lotta fairly sick old lungers in heah, gentlemen; this’un is bah fah the wusta the lot. And he’s the only one that come in heah last coupla days. Record says his friends took him out foah little excursion yestiddy—kinda constitutional outing. Gone the whole day.”

“Must be our guy. Don’ look all that dangerous.”

“Not now that he’s been sedated, Dayne; but ya’ll nevah know. Mebbe he was bettah earleah.”

“Oah mebbe he made one last effort today.”

“Could be. Ah thenk we bettah leave him be ‘til the rangers and the FBI agents git heah. Ah don’ want him to croak on oah watch. Let’s ya’ll and me set a spell in heah and watch him. Ah’ll go out and use the desk phone, call this in. We don’ need the cavalry gallopin’ in heah scarin’ these poah foaks haf outta theah minds.”

“Ah agree. Let’s hope the rest of ‘em gits heah PDQ, or else this one ain’t gonna be much of a witness.”

Recipes for Sanatorium Food, ca 1950s

The ideal diet for tuberculosis patients consists of good nutrition with leafy, dark-colored greens like kale and spinach, for their high iron and B-vitamin content, plenty of whole grains including whole wheat pastas, breads, and cereals, antioxidant-rich, brightly-colored vegetables, such as carrots, peppers, and squash, and fruits like tomatoes, blueberries, and cherries, unsaturated fats like vegetable or olive oil instead of butter, a daily multivitamin with minerals, and high calorie energy foods. The patient is encouraged to eat hearty portions of lean protein sources like poultry, beans, tofu, and fish. No coffee or other caffeinated drinks and a bare minimum of refined products like sugar, white breads, or white rice, alcohol, or drugs of abuse.

In the 1940s and 50s, the reality in sanatoria was different owing not to ignorance or stinginess, but to lack of funding in some counties. In those days, and in those places, staffing was limited, and the aides had to hurry. The patient experienced a brief encounter with a harried nurse or aide delivering a plate with two or three stale slices of bread and a pat of butter, and a large thick mug holding a knife and fork. A later meal was likely to feature a plate of cold meat and potatoes with a large enamel mug of tea or cocoa. Patients like jail inmates referred to the fare as “Indian rubber beefsteak, disconnected cheese, and coffee that tastes like tobacco juice.” The best food the patients received, but the least appreciated, was a daily tablespoonful of cod liver oil. Teaspoons were in short supply; the patient had the choice of stirring with the meaty end or the handle end of his or her fork and licking it clean before proceeding with the meat, if it was meat day. Besides the tedium of the same food schedule week in and week out, it was a bit dispiriting and jail-like since plates, mugs, and utensils were all marked with the patient’s admission number and engraved with the phrase, “Stolen from Elmwood,” to discourage thievery.