Within hours of checking into the Croydon Hotel Fred bought a three cent post card with a photograph of the ornate hotel ball room from the cigar store in the lobby. He walked to the post office at 79th Street and mailed the card to Mrs. Margaret Leland, Post Office Box 432, Newark, New Jersey. In neat handwriting the message read:
“Dear Aunt Peggy,
So happy to be back after a wonderful trip down South.
Love.
Eddy.”
Then he bought some groceries from the convenience store and settled quietly into the modest efficiency apartment.
Over the next few days Fred familiarized himself with the German American establishments around Yorkville. He traveled extensively into other neighborhoods, and spent much of his time on the Manhattan and Brooklyn waterfronts. It was obvious that most of the local ethnic German or Italian haunts were being heavily canvassed by both the FBI and the New York City police department. Agents and detectives were easy to spot hanging in and around the Café Geiger, Rudi’s and Maxl’s, the Berlin Bar and the Lorelei every afternoon and evening as groups of Bundist die-hards marched noisily around imitating the Nazi storm troopers they eagerly watched in the newsreels. The same was happening in Little Italy around Mulberry and Grand Streets among the Italians: Blackshirts everywhere, portraits of Mussolini giving the Fascist salute and so on. The next day Fred bought a wardrobe of standard American clothes from a local tailor, two suits, pants, a sports jacket and a fancy pair of black wing tip shoes to blend into the crowd.
He went briskly about his business as he entered and exited the building mostly through the garage entrance, never stopping to chat or appearing to be idle. He visited the local stores and diners, casing locations with more than one exit and the best public spots to set up meetings. By the end of the first week a messenger delivered a large manila envelope to the front desk addressed to Mr.Vickers. It contained detailed coded instructions for the weeks to come. Fred picked a book from his suitcase: the one time pad for October and November was contained in the word groups of certain pages of the Italian translation of Gone With the Wind, entitled Via Col Vento. It took him two hours to decrypt the five pages crammed with instructions in a code that used a mix of letters and numbers until he was finally able to read his orders, memorize them and burn everything in the kitchen sink.
The closing lines contained a disturbing message:
“Surveillance is very heavy. Face to face meetings are impossible. Meeting is set with agent ALFIO for tomorrow Saturday at 8 pm at location number 1. Destroy.”
The following evening, in a crumpled suit and battered old hat he took the subway to Canal Street and walked several blocks stopping often to check for anyone following until he reached the Bowery. There was a quiet little bar on the corner called McCarthy’s and he ordered a shot of bourbon on the rocks. The radio was playing a Benny Goodman tune, there were a few people around, mostly on the verge of hitting the skids. Ten minutes later a stocky fellow came in and sat a few stools down from Fred. He took a copy of the Journal American and placed it flat on the bar. Fred waited for about three minutes, then holding an unlit cigarette he approached the man:
“Excuse me Buddy, would you have a light?”
The man looked at Fred and smiled;
“I do. But I smoke only Lucky's.”
The man pulled out a Zippo lighter.
“I do too, sometimes.”
Fred returned to finish his drink, dropped fifty cents on the counter and left. He went to the opposite corner of the Bowery and Canal and stopped. A few minutes later the man from the bar joined him and they walked side by side slowly heading north. They barely looked at each other.
“I need your assistance.”
“No problem.”
“I have to buy a fishing boat, something small, the kind they use off the coast here.”
“That shouldn’t be to difficult. You’re paying cash right?”
“Yes.”
“Ok. Give me a week and I’ll find you what you’re looking for.” He paused for a minute then added “You got something for me today?”
“Here.” He quickly gave the man an envelope and they both parted in separate directions.
A week later as planned, Fred went to a second meeting, in another Irish bar this time on Third Avenue and 47th Street under the El. But the man didn’t show up and Fred mailed a postcard to the post office box in Newark to complain about the failed connection. The reply came three days later that the meeting was postponed and that the next rendezvous would be set in due course.