It had been 30 amazing hours since Gerhardt’s departure from Germany. First there had been the ride in the Messerschmitt. If he lived to be one mmdred, he knew he could never duplicate that thrill. And then there was the leap from the American long-range bomber, plane. It had turned out to be nothing short of exhilarating. He’d wished that he could have done it all over again. But there had been work to do. And now that work was done. He had come to Los Angeles as ordered, apprehended Marcus Wood as ordered, and had delivered Wood to the very hatch of the submarine. As ordered.
But get on that ship himself? Forget it. As far as he was concerned, he’d done his duty by the Reich and there was no way in hell that he was going back to Germany, to Hitler, to hardship, to deprivation.
At roughly ten in the evening, he dutifully rowed Wood via dinghy to the waiting sub. He remained in the dinghy while Wood was taken aboard. Then, when it was his own turn to get into the claustrophobic chamber, he pushed off, rowing for all his worth toward the shore. The beautiful Californian shore.
The submarine commander, taken by surprise at Gerhardt’s actions had, in as loud a voice as he dared, ordered Gerhardt’s immediate return. Gerhardt, knowing there was no chance the sub commander would attempt to capture him, and no chance he’d fire on him for fear of attracting the United States Coast Guard, just laughed and rowed, rowed and laughed.
He was free and it felt great. Of course, he would have to be on his guard for those in Los Angeles who might have helped in the abduction of Marcus Wood. For example, they had a car waiting for him at the sub rendezvous location so that he could transport Wood. He’d been instructed to dump the vehicle off a cliff into the ocean before reboarding the submarine, but he hadn’t done it. Why destroy a perfectly good car? He’d need it to get around. But could these people trace him through the license plate? No big deal. He’d simply trade license plates with another black, 1942 Ford sedan. There had to be thousands of them in L.A. alone. As for his appearance, he would shave off his mustache. And start parting his hair on the side instead of in the middle. And maybe wear sunglasses all the time like the movie stars did.
It was a moonless night which was good for the submarine’s departure. It occurred to him that Hitler might send someone to capture him the same way he’d been sent to capture Wood. Although would Hitler bother with such an insignificant person as himself? Gerhardt thought not.
The main thing was that he was now in the land where movies were made, where movie stars lived, and where he, himself, with his not bad looks and his strong if not perfect command of American English (he could recite whole movie scripts with a Kansas accent), would make his fortune. Maybe even become a movie star himself. Take Deanna Durbin on a date. Change his name to something movie-starrish. Kirk Sinclair? Deanna Durbin was sure to go out with a guy called Kirk Sinclair. Gerhardt decided to give it some more thought. After all, what was the rush? He had the rest of his life to live in this fabulous paradise called Hollywood, this incredible wonderland.
“Hollywood,” he repeated to himself several times, as if he couldn’t really believe he had it in the palm of his hand. This was the place he’d waited all his life to visit. He just stood above the crashing waves for awhile, perfectly happy to breathe in the delicious California sea air and to contemplate all the wonderful things he had to look forward to. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d known such excitement.
Gerhardt thought about how easy it had been to complete this mission. Of course, Marcus Wood had put up a terrific struggle when it was revealed to him just why it was that Adolph Hitler, some ten thousand miles away, wanted to see him. And just what it was that Hitler had in mind for him.
“But I was just getting rid of Maggie because I thought he’d be pleased,” Wood had raved just before Gerhardt had gagged him. “I was doing it for the Reich.”
The sub with Wood aboard would now take a longer route back to Germany, down around South America, stopping in Argentina to refuel. In two weeks and a few days from now, a rabid Hitler would be presiding over Wood’s trial himself, if, indeed, there was to be a trial. One thing was a certainty, what the verdict would be. There was no question but that it would be guilty. Following that, there would be a slow, agonizing death, probably by hanging from the neck by piano wire. “The Hitler Special,” as it was often referred to by Hitler’s staff in Berlin.
And all because Wood had murdered the woman that Hitler loved and adored above all women. Well, Adolph Hitler wasn’t the only one who felt this way about Maggie Graym. Gerhardt thought. He’d loved her himself and had even envisioned meeting her one day in this fabled Hollywood. It was a fantasy he’d enjoyed since first setting eyes on her beauteous film persona.
But due to Marcus Wood, that meeting would never take place, Gerhardt thought, bitterly. The only satisfaction he would ever get out of this tragedy was the knowledge that justice would be carried out and that Maggie would be avenged. And that he, Gerhardt Vanderschloffer, would have played a prominent role in making all this happen.
And now he could start his new life although he really had no idea what his next move would be. The only things he had were the car, the U.S. Naval officer’s uniform he was wearing and the falsified papers.
The uniform had originally been intended as a kind of passport around Los Angeles. In uniform, he’d hardly be noticed, but out of it he might be regarded with suspicion. If there was any trouble with the authorities, there was always the little capsule fastened in the lining of his jacket pocket to be used without hesitation in case of capture and interrogation.
Gerhardt was aware of how, the previous June, a Nazi sub deposited eight saboteurs on the east coast of America. Their mission had been to blow up munitions factories, but before they could strike the first blow, they were nabbed, put on trial, and immediately put to death in the electric chair. Gerhardt shuddered at the thought.
He reached into his pocket, found the capsule, and threw it into the darkness. Also in his pocket was the hand-written note he’d seen on a table in Wood’s bedroom before Wood had come up to change.
Not knowing why, Gerhardt had quickly read the note and although he couldn’t understand all the words, he got the main idea. Apparently there was to be a gathering at the home of Emerson Waldie, the late Emerson Waldie, that is. Gerhardt had heard about Waldie’s death on the car radio and about his funeral which had taken place earlier.
The note, written in what was a generous hand complete with flourishes and hoops, asked that Wood join the mourners (there was a ‘ha-ha’ next to the word ‘mourners’) at the Waldie estate in Beverly Hills that evening. The message related that everybody was going to be there and was signed Your adoring Enid.
Gerhardt considered showing up at the Waldie place. This was the start of his new life, wasn’t it? And he needed to make some new friends, didn’t he?
The Waldie party would be as good as anywhere to begin with. There were bound to be important people present, people that might aid him in getting established. The only problem Gerhardt could see facing him was that of actually getting in the front door.
He started driving toward Beverly Hills and even though he’d only been there once before, to scoop up Marcus Wood, he had no trouble finding his way. He’d studied the city map many, many times since the age of sixteen in preparation for the time when he would be lucky enough to travel there. He probably knew Los Angeles better than the people who actually lived there.
By the time he arrived at the big mansion on the hill, he knew exacdy how he would present himself. It would be as Emerson Waldie’s nephew, just back from the war in the Pacific.
His acquired limp would lend credence to his story that he had received a serious leg wound from which he was recovering as best possible. Who was going to turn away a limping war hero nephew from New Jersey?
He just had to remember to keep talking like John Wayne. And, for God’s sake, not to lapse into German. Or lose the limp on the conga line.