“And so I followed the mob …”
Harry Bierce peered out the small window of the unused, back-up radio broadcast room onto Wrigley Field. The President was long gone, probably on his train back to Washington already. A surprising number of people milled about the stands and field, still excited by the soaring speech FDR gave after the game, still unwilling to return to the drab misery of their homes. Melvin Purvis walked up beside Bierce, and for a minute the two G-men watched in silence as workmen set out to disassemble the platform on which the President, his entourage, and tons of movie and camera equipment had rested less than an hour ago.
Finally Purvis broke the silence. “Say what you will about that crippled socialist bastard, he can sure stir a crowd. Never saw anything like it in my life.”
“He may indeed be a socialist,” responded Bierce quietly, “but, he knows, as you and I know, that this country is teetering on the edge of revolution. His policies are designed to give hope to a desperate, suffering people, and turn them away from both the fascists and the true communists. He may very well be the only one at this time who can save our republic, and keep us from the chaos sweeping Europe.”
Purvis shrugged. “Be that as it may, America came goddamn close to losing him, and you deserve the credit for preventing that.” Purvis walked over and picked up the rifle that had been discovered in this small room.
“A Springfield 30-06, fitted with a military-standard telescopic scope. From that window, it was less than one hundred yards to where Roosevelt was speaking. For a marksman like Dillinger, it would have been almost impossible to miss. Do you think he could have gotten away?”
Bierce shrugged slightly. “Hard to say with certainty, but he would have stood a good chance. We already know that he was a fanatical follower of the Chicago Cubs. As such, he had over the years learned every nook and cranny of this—let’s be blunt—mazelike stadium. You remember how easily he eluded you and slipped away after I was shot? I think he planned to do the same after murdering the President. He would wipe down the rifle to remove his fingerprints, and slip out the door of this disused room into a mass of hysterical people. Bold to the point of arrogance, but it just might have worked. No one could have proved who fired the shot. The President’s followers would be frantically looking for the murderer in any group that had ever dared to oppose FDR; law enforcement would be paralyzed, riots in the streets would erupt, and, just perhaps, a revolution would be set in motion.”
Both men were silent for nearly a minute, then Bierce said, “That is why I want your word of honor as a gentleman that you and your people never breathe a word about this attempt, or about my involvement in taking down Dillinger.”
Purvis carefully leaned the rifle against the wall. He then looked at Bierce, silently bothered by the phrase “word of honor as a gentlemen.” Who used such language these days. Bierce was an anachronism, yet Purvis could tell the man was absolutely sincere.
“Harry, you have my word, but only on one condition.”
“And that is?”
“That I privately tell that bastard Hoover that this was your show. I won’t take credit for this, at least with those who matter. Let the blessed public think what they will.”
Bierce thought for a moment, nodded, then turned his gaze out the window again. Purvis joined him, and without looking at Bierce, said, “Dillinger had no politics. Someone paid him to do this. You going after that bastard?”
Bierce continued to stare out the window, saying nothing.
“Just want you to know you can call on me. Anytime. Anyplace.” Purvis turned toward Bierce and stuck out his hand. Finally, Bierce looked at him, and after a moment shook Purvis’s hand in return.
Thereafter, Bierce made his own request. “You know the Immigration people have seized Mrs. Cumpanas. I promised her that I would not let her be deported to the hellish hole that is Roumania.”
Bierce dug into the side pocket of his coat jacket and removed a large amount of cash, neatly secured with a rubber band. He handed it to Purvis. “I do not have time to address the wrong due her immediately. Please, use this money to hire a good lawyer to delay deportation as long as possible. Now, good day.” Again, he shook Purvis’s hand briskly, and left the astonished agent holding six months’ worth of salary.
“God damn you to hell, Earl,” roared Senator Huey Long, in a voice that sent his two henchmen easing themselves out of the luxury hotel suite, leaving Huey alone with his red-faced brother. “You drooling retard! I give you a simple assignment and you screw it up. You couldn’t pour piss out of a shoe with instructions written on the heel!”
“That ain’t fair and you know it,” replied Earl Long in a terrified, whiny voice. “You told me to get hold of Dillinger, and I did. Ain’t my fault the Feds shot him outside a movie house before he could do the job.”
Huey paused and did his best to bring his titanic temper under control. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He knew Earl was right, that his brother had done what had been asked. Still, he had needed to take out his anger on someone, and his dimwitted brother was the only one on hand.
“All right, Earl, I know it’s not your fault. It’s just that the damn man in the White House seems to have the devil’s own luck. I know you do your best for me. Always have, always will. Don’t take what I say serious, brother. It’s the rest of the family who treats you like shit, not me. I’m going places, and you’re going with me. All the way to the top.”
Huey remembered seeing his folks and his siblings treat little Earl like the village idiot, causing the child to cry himself to sleep night after night. He remembered how he stood up for his little brother at the cost of an occasional beating, and had been rewarded by the unreserved adoration of Earl. Huey swore to himself that someday he would have people kissing Earl’s ass. His mind snapped back to the issue at hand. “We can’t try the direct route again. We’ve missed twice now. Too much chance it could be traced back to me if we miss a third time.”
“Huey, maybe we should give up trying to take the easy way. Maybe we should work to take the nomination away from him, in two years’ time.”
“Do you have any idea how much money that would take? The entire deduct box would be a drop in the bucket!”
“Come on, big brother. The deduct box gives us absolute control of Louisiana, with cash to spare.”
“Open your eyes! This here is about the poorest state in the Union. We can control it for pocket change. To take the nomination away from FDR, we need to get the support of states like New York, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio. We just don’t have the cash for that.” Huey Long rubbed his eyes, then continued. “Well, I have been working on a back-up plan, little brother o’ mine. We can squeeze our out-of-state friends for more—much, much more.”
“I tell you, they have no more to give,” Earl replied “They will if we point out what another six years of Roosevelt’s rule would mean to their interests. And who’s to say FDR would stop with two terms. How about three? Four? Besides, I think it’s time we try to see what we can get from some friends across the ocean.”
“Across the ocean? Goddammit Huey, you’ve gone plumb loco. Why would some foreigners give a crap about who runs the U S of A?”
“They care, never you mind why. A little bird told me they’re going to send a representative to talk turkey. You and me are the only people who know that, at least at this end. I want you to meet this representative and sound him out before bringing him to me, quiet like. Find out how much money he can get us. If it’s enough to take on FDR in two years, we’re back in business.”
“Now, just who is this representative you want me to meet?”
Huey Long told Earl, who responded with an uncharacteristic obscenity.
It was an unusually clear morning in New York harbor. On the deck of the ocean liner Bremen, the passenger in the dark, conservative suit stared moodily down at the dock where final preparations were being made before the passengers could disembark. His concentration, however, was not on the bustling workers, but on his mission, his family, and what he must do to keep them alive.
His papers identified him as Albert Schmidt, a representative of a large German winery seeking to establish new markets for the fine red wines of the Rhineland. They gave not the slightest hint that he was in fact Franz von Papen, and until the last month, the Vice-Chancellor of Germany. He had doubted that his disguise would pass muster, as his face was well known to the political world. However, Heydrich’s experts had been correct—shaving his moustache, dying his iron-grey hair black, and parting his hair in the middle rather than severely combing it toward the back of his head seemed to make him unrecognizable to the Americans.
Although the summer morning was warm, von Papen shivered. Not from cold, but from fear. He had once thought himself a brave man, believed that his service as an advisor to the Turkish forces during the Great War had proven that. He now realized he was a small man, a weak man whose arrogance and miscalculation had placed his beloved wife and five children in mortal danger. He closed his eyes and reviewed the events that had brought him to New York under a false name, doing the work of a common spy.
The worst mistake of his life was to have ever entered the chaotic, political arena of the Weimar Republic. By birth and nature an aristocratic Prussian conservative, he had wended his way through the ever-shifting alliances and hatreds of Weimar, with each shift of the wind getting ever closer to the Chancellorship. He carefully cultivated the aging, increasingly senile President von Hindenburg, encouraging him to bypass parliament, and govern by Presidential decree, as was permitted by the Weimar Constitution. Then, in 1932, von Papen received his reward. Parliament was hopelessly splintered, no one party having a majority. Normally, the largest party would have headed a coalition government with smaller parties. Yet, the two parties with the most members were the Communists, who von Hindenburg hated with every particle of his conservative Prussian soul, and the Nazis, who he, too, despised for their unseemly anti-Semitism, and especially for the low social origins of their leader. Whispering into the aging war hero’s ear, von Papen persuaded him to appoint him Chancellor, despite the fact that von Papen was universally disliked and distrusted in Parliament as a scheming opportunist. Impertinently, von Papen felt he did not need to consider Parliament, as von Hindenburg had promised to implement the Chancellor’s laws by Presidential decree. Von Papen had made it to the top.
His victory lasted only six months. During his reign, Parliament grew more agitated by his dictatorial role, and Nazi and Communist thugs ruled the streets of the major cities. Even the army had come to despise him, and refused to help restore order unless he was replaced as Chancellor by an army general. With great reluctance, von Hindenburg gave in and relieved von Papen of his duties, but the public disorder only got worse.
Finally, the leaders of the centrist and conservative parties decided that they would have to choose between the Nazis and the Communists. Given the Communists’ great allegiance to Stalinist Russia, most felt they had no choice but to turn to the Nazis, whose brown-shirted Sturmabteilung thugs could at least clear the streets. Surprisingly, they neither liked, nor trusted Hitler and his followers. So, when they offered him the Chancellorship, the only other Nazi allowed in the cabinet was the superficially charming Hermann Goering, a highly decorated war hero barely acceptable to respectable society. All other cabinet members were non-Nazis, who were acceptable to the army. President von Hindeburg did, however, give von Papen the position of Vice-Chancellor. In order to keep an eye on the “Austrian corporal,” as the dying von Hindenburg sneeringly called Hitler.
And then a dimwitted Dutch Communist burned down the Parliament building. The terrified legislature voted an “Enabling Act” that allowed the Chancellor to issue laws for the protection of Germany without consulting Parliament or the cabinet. Von Papen abruptly found himself living in a dictatorship run by a racist clearly intending to plunge Europe into another war. Von Papen had seen the previous war and did not want to see another. And although somewhat anti-Semitic, he was genuinely shocked by the blatant hostility, brutality, and discrimination that was being visited on what he considered “good Jews,” and which was getting worse by the month.
Much against his will, he slowly recognized that he had played a major role in handing the German state over to a thuggish monster. It hurt his monumental pride, but he could no longer conceal from himself the knowledge that his own lust for power and aristocratic disdain for the lumpish gangsters who ran the Nazi party, had blinded him to the threat they posed to his beloved Germany. Although it cost him weeks of agonized uncertainty, he finally decided it was his duty to clean up the mess he himself had helped create.
Only the army could now remove Hitler and his crew, but they would not move without the word of President von Hindenburg, who still retained the power to dismiss the Chancellor. With von Hindenburg senile and dying, his crippled brain often confusing Hitler with the Emperor Wilhelm, von Papen decided that harsh action must be taken to warn the people against the Nazis, something so dramatic that it would compel von Hindenburg to order the army to eject Hitler from the Chancery, and to sweep the ruffians from the streets. And of course, von Papen thought wryly, there would have to be a new, non-Nazi Chancellor. And who better than Vice-Chancellor Franz von Papen?
So, with the help of his able secretary, Herbert von Bose, he drafted a stem-winding speech, one denouncing—in no uncertain terms—the lawlessness of the Nazi regime, calling for the end of Hitler’s rule by decree and restoring legislative power to the Parliament. He chose to deliver this speech at the University of Marburg, where the students and professors would guarantee him an enthusiastic audience. And they were enthusiastic. They cheered him for a quarter hour after his savoir faire.
But, nothing more happened. Minister of Propaganda Goebbels forbade any mention of the speech on the radio, or in the newspapers. Except to the relatively few who had actually been there, it was as if von Papen’s speech had never happened. So, the public concentrated on other things. There were rumors that the head of the Brownshirts, Ernst Rohm, was planning a coup, whereby he would replace the army with the SA oppressors. There were rumors, also, that Hitler was talking to army leaders, promising to curb the SA, if the army would support him. There were no rumors, however, about any speech at the University of Marburg. Then late one night it happened.
Vice-Chancellor von Papen sat in his office, discussing with the loyal von Bose a plan to contact the leaders of the army directly. It being a hot summer’s night, the French doors leading into the garden were open. When he heard a faint, but distinctive sound of a pistol shot, followed by the stutter of submachine guns, Von Papen’s head jerked up. Prompted by a scream cut short by another burst of fire, both men rose from their chairs and hurried to the window. At first in the distance, the gunfire burst sporadically, then closing in, the men turned to each other, fear overtaking them. No sooner had the men turned away from the window, that through the closed inner-office door, they heard a commotion, shouting, and then von Papen’s wife scream, “Franz, help!” This, followed by the sound of a muffled blow.
“Martha!” he screamed, running full tilt towards the door, skidding to a halt as it was thrown open. Two soldiers, dressed in the black uniforms of the SS, towered in the doorway. Both were carrying Mauser pistols. With more courage than he had ever thought he had, von Papen ran at them, shouting, “Martha, I’m coming!” only to have the soldier on the right bring his gun down on the Vice-Chancellor’s head with stunning force. He staggered backward into von Bose’s arms, his loyal subordinate keeping him from the indignity of falling to the floor.
“Let us have no more of that, Mr. Vice-Chancellor,” said a soft, rather high voice from behind them. Von Papen shook himself free of his secretary, and turned toward the open French doors. Two men more men entered, the sight of whom turned his blood to ice. Both were jackbooted; both wore the SS black. One, a short, rather plump man with thick spectacles and the face of a bemused rabbit: Heinrich Himmler, head of the Hitler’s SS bodyguard, rumored to soon become chief policeman of Germany. The other, a tall, fit man, blond and blue eyed, the very image of the perfect Aryan: Reinhardt Heydrich, Himmler’s chief henchman, already spoken of in whispers as “The Hangman.”
Choking back his terror, von Papen spoke in a harsh voice, “Himmler, what does this mean? What have you done with my wife and children?”
“They are all right—for the time being,” replied Himmler in a friendly voice. “I take it that your companion is von Bose, am I not correct? The very man who so willingly drafted your Marburg speech.”
“Yes, he is,” von Papen defended, “but the speech was mine entirely, he only transcribed what I dictated.”
Himmler smiled, and gestured to Heydrich. The blond giant drew a Mauser broom handle pistol and shot von Bose in the head. The man fell, but Heydrich kept shooting until his ten-round magazine was empty. At the sight of his friend destroyed, his head literally obliterated, and the acrid odor of cordite filling the air, von Papen puked his guts out all over his prized carpets. When he finished being sick, the devoted Catholic von Papen stepped over to von Bose’s remains and made the sign of the cross over them. He then turned to face his own death, putting on a brave face, as a Prussian officer should.
Unexpectedly, Heydrich finished reloading his gun and holstered it. Himmler walked over and perched himself on the edge of von Papen’s desk. “The Leader apologizes that he could not be here in person, but he has commitments in Bavaria. He is directing the arrest of Rohm and his catamites on charges of treason.” Himmler rearranged the files on von Papen’s desk as he spoke. “They will be dead by sunrise.” The SS leader folded his hands across his propped-up knee and fixed his gaze upon von Papen. “So will a number of others—the Brownshirts, the army, even those in the Party itself—those who were attempting to overthrow National Socialism.”
In a seething whisper, von Papen replied, “When President von Hindenburg hears of what is happening, he will dismiss Hitler from the Chancellorship, and order the army to clear all you Nazis out of office.”
After a short laugh, Heydrich’s demeanor changed. “The President is in a coma, and all the doctors agree he will never come out of it. When he dies, he will be given a spectacular funeral, as befits a hero of the Fatherland. And after a decent interval, the Leader will combine the powers of the Chancellor and the President. He has also made a deal with the army’s leadership. In return for reducing the Brownshirts to an impotent remnant, he will have the army’s total support. Of course, over time our SS will undertake the tasks the Brownshirts previously performed, but the Leader saw no need to raise that issue with the generals.”
“And now we come to you,” said Himmler as he stood and pointed his finger at von Papen as if he were a child. “You have been a very bad fellow. The Leader is very, very disappointed in you. He was inclined to throw you into the cells with Rohm and his fairy friends and have you shot tomorrow morning, but,” Himmler bowed slightly, “Goering and I persuaded him that could be unwise. The generals don’t care how many SA thugs the Leader has shot, but they would not accept your death. They dislike and distrust you, but you are, after all, a former Chancellor and a Prussian officer.” Himmler waved his hands before gathering them behind his back, standing even more rigid, as if he were about to undergo inspection by a superior officer. “That means a lot to those stiff-necked militarists, perhaps the latter, more than the former. So, we persuaded the Leader to accept your resignation as Vice-Chancellor, and promised him that you would use your remaining prestige to perform an important service for the Reich.”
Himmler drew a folded document from an inside pocket of his tunic, and threw it on von Papen’s desk. “This is your resignation. Sign it.”
Fearful, but determined, von Papen slowly shook his head. “I will not. I don’t care if you kill me, I will not bow down before you … you Sträftater … you murderers.”
“That is a pity,” replied Himmler with a sigh. “Heydrich, take the two men at the door and go to where Frau von Papen and the children are being held. You know what to do.”
“NO!” screamed von Papen. “I will do all that you ask! Please,” he begged. “Just leave Martha and my children untouched.” He staggered over to the desk and signed the document without reading it.
Himmler smiled benevolently. “See. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“What is this so-called service you wish of me?” asked von Papen in a hollow voice.
“You’ve heard of the Thule Society?”
“Yes. An association of unbalanced crackpots who have some idiotic ideas about the origins of mankind.”
The smile instantly disappeared from Himmler’s face, replaced by a scowl. “Be careful what you say. Their ideas are not idiotic, and they exercise great power behind the scenes in the Reich. I am one of their Inner Council, with Heydrich as a candidate member.”
Von Papen’s jaw nearly dropped. He wondered if it was possible for Germany to become any more insane under the Nazis.
Himmler continued to speak. “The subtle pressure the members of Thule were able to bring to bear eased the Leader’s path to the Chancellorship.” Himmler stopped. “I see from the look on your face that you do not believe me. Well, no matter, your lack of belief will not affect your ability to conduct your duties.”
Madmen are indeed running the asylum, thought von Papen. Even so, his family must be protected. “So what is this service you wish from me?”
“There is a secret society in America, one in accord with many of our goals. It wishes our financial support in funding a politician to replace Roosevelt in the White House, a politician who is in accord with many of the principles of National Socialism. This is tempting. Roosevelt despises us, and may try to thwart our future plans. The Leader wishes to be assured that they are a serious organization with serious resources. You will take a ship for New York under a false name, wearing a disguise. There, you will be met by a representative of the American group. He will take you to see those who control it, where you will examine their financial resources. If you are satisfied that they are a serious group, you will be taken to meet their American politician, and, as they say, ‘strike a deal’.”
With courage he had not known he possessed, von Papen replied, “Why do you think I would give you an honest evaluation?”
Heydrich answered. “Because, after you finish your job, you will return to Germany to see your family.
And you will all remain under house arrest. If later it should turn out you have betrayed us….” The Hangman gestured toward the body on the floor.
“Very well,” said von Papen. “It appears I have no other choice.”
“Excellent,” Himmler replied as he clapped his hands.
“We will begin immediately.” Himmler patted Heydrich on the back. “Heydrick will escort you to SS headquarters and begin fitting you with the papers for your new identity. I,” again Himmler bowed, “will escort your beautiful wife and children to your country estate, and ensure that a … ah … guard of honor is established for them.”
Just then, the distant chatter of a submachine gun followed by a scream caused von Papen to jump.
Schmidt shook off his reverie and left his cabin. After descending the gangway, he went to the customs station, and handed his papers nervously to the official, certain that as someone who had, however briefly, been one of the most important politicians in Europe, he would be recognized. On the contrary, Heydrich had been correct about changing his appearance. The bored official glanced at him casually, stamped the passport, and handed it back to him. A relieved von Papen collected his single suitcase and exited the customs building. All at once he heard, “Welcome to America, Herr Schmidt.” Von Papen turned to face the speaker, a large, somewhat overweight man with a friendly smile, who enthusiastically shook his hand.
“I’m Jackson Noyes, Mr. Schmidt,” the man said in a distinctive Boston accent. “As you were undoubtedly told back in Germany, I will be your guide and your host during your visit to our fair shores.”
“Pleased to meet you,” responded von Papen automatically, although he had taken an instant dislike to the man.
“Here, let me take your bag. Follow me to our car.” von Papen followed the American for half a block until they entered a parking lot, and reached a flashy new Cadillac convertible, the top already down. Noyes threw the suitcase into the trunk and took the driver seat, gesturing for von Papen to take the passenger seat. Barely seated himself, Noyes ignited the engine, and with the V-12 howling, gunned out of the parking lot, turning left on a northbound street. Above the sound of the engine and the wind, von Papen had to speak loudly to be heard.
“I understand that you are to introduce me to some of your, ah, colleagues, as well as some of your resources. I was not given the details. Now that I am here, I would appreciate more information.”
Noyes laughed ruefully. “Our organization is quite old, and seventy years ago was close to doing for this country what your Leader is doing for Germany. Unfortunately, we moved too quickly and encountered unexpected opposition. That opposition thought it had destroyed us. What they did not know is that we had boltholes it never dreamed existed, and we still retained stupendous financial resources. We sent some of our best people to Europe to found a sister organization, but moving slowly, never excited suspicion. The Thule Society is the result. And although even most Party members don’t know it, we have been a major supporter of your Leader—and of Herr Himmler. They are grateful to us, and in return will make the resources of Germany available to us, so that we can put a man in the White House who will support our mutual goals.”
“Fringe beliefs such as yours are three a penny since the Depression hit,” von Papen said, frowning. “Why should Germany back a pack of chanting cultists?”
Noyes was now smiling broadly. “Oh, we are ever so much more than, as you say, ‘a pack of cultists’. We are something you would not believe, unless you saw it with your own eyes. That is why I am taking you to see some very curious facilities and people in rural Vermont, and then to spend a couple of educational days in the Massachusetts seaside village of Innsmouth, with a final visit to meet our Grand Council.”
“In Boston?”
“No, in an interesting town northeast of Boston called Arkham.”
Harry Bierce brought his rented Hudson convertible to a stop just in front of the imposing brick mansion. Killing the engine, he emitted a long sigh; the day and a half drive from Chicago to Kentucky had involved some bad roads, and the constant jolting had tired him. In addition, he did not look forward to his meeting. Still, she deserved the warning he was here to give. He got out of the car, stretched, and started toward the grand front door. He stopped short when his eye caught the image of a woman riding a horse near a distant barn. He hurried toward the barn. The woman must have noticed him, but continued to put her mount through its paces. As he walked directly up to the horse, Mrs. Belasco brought her animal to a stop and smoothly dismounted, keeping the reins in her hand.
The raven-haired beauty smiled arrogantly at her guest. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Do you need more money?”
“No, your kind gift has been more than sufficient. I have come rather to give you a warning.”
“Indeed. Well, come walk with me and warn away.” She whistled, and a groom came scurrying out of the barn. Wordlessly she handed him the reigns, then began walking to a nearby pen. Bierce followed, his sensitive nose wrinkling at the foul odor emanating from it. On closer inspection, he could see that the enclosure held ten or twelve large hogs, grunting and snuffling at the muck that covered the ground. Mrs. Belasco leaned on the top railing, looking affectionately at the animals. Bierce held back, distaste written on his features. Mrs. Belasco noticed this and laughed.
“You never did like pigs, did you?”
“Foul animals,” he muttered. “I’ve seen them in the aftermath of battles, feeding on the dead and the not quite dead, eating until there was literally nothing left of the soldier.”
“Ah, yes, perfect little disposal machines. That’s why I keep them around. They eat the garbage, and then can be sold to the slaughterhouses. Anyway, where have you been lately?”
“Chicago.”
“Took the train to Louisville?”
“No. Rented a car and drove the distance. Took more time, but I wanted to get a view of the towns and countryside on the way. Terrible. The people are suffering and in want. Many of the farms are derelict, most of the factories seem to be closed. Homeless men, women, and children could be spotted wandering the streets in every town through which I passed. It’s even worse in the South, but not by much. It reminds me so much of those awful times, long ago.”
Mrs. Belasco laughed heartily, heartlessly. “I am always and forever baffled as to why you still care for those peasants.”
“Those ‘peasants’, as you call them, are trying to build a better world under a government which encourages them in their dreams of freedom, but seems unable to help them with their daily wants. When I see what is happening in Europe and Asia, I come to believe America and its ‘peasants’ are the only hope for decency and freedom.”
Mrs. Belasco chuckled. “You and your idealism. No matter what government comes, I will continue my pleasures, indulge my desires. And I know you share those desires, no matter how valiantly you struggle to suppress them.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “Do not try to deny it. In any event, you do seem to have had some influence on my brother. He has been enjoying the high life of Berlin recently, and has acquired some interesting information. He has joined this delightfully decadent thing called the Thule Society, and has sent me a short message through … shall we say, unusual channels … that he wished me to give to you next time we met. He says that the Thule Society is tight with the Nazis, and they’ve persuaded the Austrian peasant to contact a society in America to investigate the possibility of an alliance.”
“Starry Wisdom,” Bierce said softly. “Yes, your old friends.”
“I thought they had been beaten into impotence years ago.”
“You, of all people, should have known better than that. Anyway, brother says that if the two societies can come to an agreement, they will funnel their resources to support some Southern governor to kick FDR off the ticket in ’36. He thought that you would be interested in this information.”
“I am indeed. When you can, thank him for his information, and tell him I would be extremely grateful for more such information in the future.”
“You know, I believe he will do so,” she said thoughtfully. “It seems like some of your idealism rubbed off on him after all. Now, you said you had some sort of warning to give me.”
“It is about your missing husband. The Chicago office tells me that the search for him is being upgraded. There is a lot of pressure to apprehend him. It seems several of the victims in the Maine mansion were very well connected, socially and politically.”
Mrs. Belasco leaned her back against the railing of the pigpen, smiling strangely. “So what does this have to do with me?”
“I know you two are estranged, and I am glad of it, but in a desperate last resort he might try to hide out here. I warn you against giving him shelter. If you did, you would be an accessory after-the-fact to multiple murders, and all the money in the world won’t be able to keep a jury from sending you to the chair. If he shows his face, turn him in. I beg you.”
She turned around and looked lovingly at the hogs. “I don’t think he will be showing up anytime in the future. Just look at my beauties here, very efficient. They literally eat anything. And, they do not leave a trace.”
Bierce’s stomach did a small flip. He gave Mrs. Belasco a short, quick bow, then turned and walked quickly to his convertible. Behind him, Mrs. Belasco’s laughter sliced through the clear Kentucky air.
Bierce drove two more days to get to New Orleans. The last time he had driven that route had been in 1928 to interview a retired police detective named LeGrasse about a ritualistic murder. That drive had taken four days. Grudgingly, Bierce admitted to himself that Long had fulfilled at least one of his promises: in the last five years he had paved every road in sight, and replaced the inefficient ferries with bridges over the numerous rivers. As he drove through the countryside and the small county seats, he still saw poverty and despair, but he also saw new schools and hospitals—the former still segregated, but the latter obviously admitting black as well as white patients. Bierce reflected that many people in the North would not think of this as much, certainly not worth surrendering freedom to the increasingly dictatorial and corrupt Long machine. Seeing all this, Bierce now understood why he was constantly seeing pro-Long signs and placards in front of tarpaper shacks in the country and in run-down tenements in the towns. Even before the Depression, the downtrodden souls of Louisiana had nothing. Long had given them good roads and bridges, new schools, free textbooks for their children, hospitals and health facilities for all—white and black alike. Of course, the middle and upper classes despised Long’s corruption and increasingly dictatorial rule, but the poor loved him unreservedly, and did not give a damn if he took their political freedoms. It reminded Bierce uncomfortably of what was happening in Germany.
As Bierce parked his Hudson near the entrance to the Roosevelt Hotel, he spotted a large gathering a block away. A voice boomed from several loudspeakers. Despite the distortion, he could tell that the voice was that of Senator Long. Bierce decided to delay checking in and go to hear the great Huey Long in action.
A short walk brought him to the edge of the crowd, which he estimated to consist of about 8,000, a respectable turnout, even for a city the size of New Orleans. Although the crowd seemed friendly, even rapt with attention, Bierce noticed that on either side of the speaker’s dais stood a large, ugly man in a crumpled suit, whose appearance screamed hired muscle. More disturbingly, toward the back of the platform were about twelve national guardsmen, each with a pistol, and several with Thompson submachine guns. The sight of them made Bierce frown deeply. He then devoted his entire attention to the speaker, who had apparently been winding up the crowd for some time.
“My friends, you know I have been trying to work with President Roosevelt up in Washington City. I’ve been telling him that the people of Louisiana—hell, the whole country—have been hurting. All of you, my hard-working friends, be it on the farm or in the factory, you’ve been working your hearts out, wearing away your health and years, and yet, it’s hardly enough to feed your family. Yet is this country poor? Is it?
“NO!” yelled the crowd in unison.
“It is not, my friends. How could it be? Look at all those rich Easterners—the Mellons, the Carnegies, the Astors, the Morgans—why, Mr. John D. Rockefeller alone, is worth over a billion dollars. Now my friends, I don’t begrudge a man money that he’s worked for. Some of God’s creatures are blessed with more ability and luck than others, and more power to them. But how many meals can a man eat, while others go hungry? How many suits can a man have, while others don’t have a pair of pants without a patch? How many houses does a man need, when so many have no shack they can call their own? Does this seem a proper state of affairs, my friends? Does it?”
“NO!” yelled the crowd, louder than before.
“But do not despair, my friends! Today I have exciting news! Since Mr. Roosevelt does not seem to have the backbone to take on the rich and get this country moving again, I am forming a new organization to do just that. It is called the “Share Our Wealth Society,” and its slogan is “Every Man a King.” I urge you all to join it. I urge you to tell your friends to join. Tell your families to join. There are no dues! All I ask in return is help in spreading the good word. Now what does the society propose to do, you may ask? Well, I’m here to tell you.
“We will get the Congress to enact a tax taking away all family properties above a value of five million dollars. We will get the Congress to enact an income tax that will take away all family income of more than one million dollars a year. Now, what will be done with that money?” Huey Long stepped away from his podium and moved to the edge of his stage. Then he pointed his finger at the crowd, his voice booming. “Every family in America will receive five thousand dollars—enough for a home, a car, and a radio!” The crowd roared.
“Thereafter, every family in America will receive an annual payment of two thousand dollars. Two Thousand Dollars!” Bierce could barely hear the man over the thunder of the crowd.
“And every family with a child of proven ability will have that child sent to college, tuition free! Not only that, but the work week shall be limited to thirty hours a week.” Long walked back to his podium and turned back to the crowd, and threw his hands in the air. “Now, my friends, do you think that this would make every man in this country a king?”
The crowd went wild, the cheering, deafening. Many in the audience were crying tears of joy as the grinning Long held his arms out, as if he wished it was possible to embrace every member of the crowd at once. Bierce had seen nothing like it—except in newsreels of the Jew-baiter in Germany. He frowned to himself at that thought.
When the audience finally quieted down, Long began to speak again.
“Friends, this is going to be a campaign, but not a campaign of hatred or misery. No sir! Our campaign will be one of joy. And like all campaigns of joy, it should have a joyful anthem. Now, as you all know, I’m a humble man.” Both the crowd and Long chuckled. “But I decided to try my hand at writing such a song. Now, I found the words all right, but here before you I admit I found that the notes themselves were beyond my modest ability. So, the head of our beloved LSU Marching Band assigned his notes to my words. He and some of his boys are here this very day to play you the result. Boys, get on up here!”
The conductor and twenty of his students, wearing bright, garish uniforms, crowded onto the platform. After a downbeat, the band began to play the music, while Long cheerfully bawled out the words:
Why weep or slumber America,
Land of brave and true,
With castles and clothing and food for all,
All belongs to you.
Ev’ry man a King, ev’ry man a King.
Ev’ry man a King
But there’s something belonging to others,
Enough for all to share,
Winter or Spring,
Sunny June or December,
Ev’ry man a King, ev’ry man a King.
Ev’ry man a King!
Bierce had not thought it possible that the crowd could whoop any louder than it had already, but he was wrong. Men and women trapped in lives of misery had been shown a road to a wonderful life—by a man who seemed only to have their best interests at heart—a golden future, if only they would follow him. They danced and sang the verse, repeating, “Ev’ry man a King,” until Bierce could stand no more. He turned away in disgust, and worked his way out of the crowd, anxious to get back to the Roosevelt and get a decent bath, wash away Long’s reverie, and get good night’s sleep.
Of course, Bierce knew that it was all nonsense, but the desperate poor didn’t realize that, although Long would undoubtedly do more to improve their lives if he were in power in Washington, but Bierce thought, as well he imagined Long knew, that he would never even come close to doing it all. Whatever one thought of the rich, there simply were not enough of them to fund Long’s utopian scheme—not nearly enough.
Supposing, Bierce thought, he did become president, would Congress enact his laws? Absolutely not. But supposing it did? In no time, it would be clear that the revenues gained would not support what he had promised. He would then be forced to take even more from the rich, and start taxing the middle classes. Bierce knew that when all of this was done, there would simply not be enough capital to provide for the long term investment and development necessary to drag America out of the Depression. The country would become poorer. And even poorer still. Not only would it lack the money to fulfill all of Long’s grand promises, there would be no money to modernize the military to face the potential threats from Japan, and a Nazified Germany, which were already on the horizon.
Bierce decided he would begin an extended series of interviews of Long’s enemies, to see if he could find something—anything—that could remove the threat that Long posed to FDR. He realized bitterly that he was not going to be able to get enough evidence to connect Long to the attempts on FDR’s life, or even to the criminal schemes set forth in the dead lawyer Rocha’s notebook, but he would settle for proof of some lesser crime that would be sufficient to crush his presidential hopes. After all, he reminded himself, the mad dog criminal Al Capone had been responsible for scores of murders, but was in the end, brought down by a simple tax evasion case.
Yes, he would start on a new course to bring Long to justice, but only after a bath and a good night’s sleep.
The Ford Tri-Motor was a steady, reliable airplane, and the weather during the trip from New York had been reasonably good. Still, Franz von Papen’s complexion was ashen, and sweat rolled down his cheeks. Only the swift action of a smirking stewardess with some towels had kept him from fouling his elegant suit an hour before.
Across the aisle, Jackson Noyes bestowed a cocky smile on the German. He was amused to find von Papen was not quite the “superior man” of which the current rulers of Germany spoke. Noyes chuckled to himself at how shocked von Papen had been when shown certain things in rural Vermont and the Massachusetts town of Innsmouth. Still, Noyes could tell von Papen had been impressed—awed, in spite of himself. Now, all that was needed was to seal the deal with Huey Long.
Over the roar of the three engines, Noyes heard the pretty stewardess announce they were about to land in New Orleans. The only sign von Papen gave that he had heard was that he tightened his hold on the arms of his seat into a death-grip, and tightly closed his eyes. There was a hard bump followed by two smaller ones, and the aircraft landed firmly on the ground. The pilot taxied over to the small terminal building, and one-by-one, killed the engines. Only then did von Papen unclench his eyes. As the door to the passenger compartment was thrown open, the German bolted from his chair and was first out into the sunshine. The amused Noyes followed at a more sedate pace. He found von Papen leaning against the wall by the luggage claim desk, gulping air, the color slowly returning to his face. Noyes approached the airsick German, trying to suppress his amusement.
“So, Franz, you do not have the stomach of a flier.”
“I did not claim to,” replied von Papen, now wiping the sweat from his face with a large handkerchief.
“It might be something else,” replied Noyes with a smirk. “You haven’t seemed quite yourself since you met our Vermont and Massachusetts friends. Don’t worry, you probably won’t need to see them again. They will remain behind the scenes, for obvious reasons.”
Gott im Himmel! thought von Papen as he restored the handkerchief to his coat pocket. He wondered if there was any end to the perversions of the Nazis … to contemplate an alliance with those … those….
A voice interrupted von Papen’s thoughts. “Good afternoon!” said a tall, overweight man who pumped Noyes’ hand up and down as if he was trying to get water from a well. The stranger then turned to von Papen and took the German’s right hand in both of his. “And this must be our friend from overseas. I’m Earl Long, Senator Huey’s little brother. Big brother has told me you’re here to discuss some arrangements of benefit to all. I’m to take you to the Roosevelt Hotel, where the Senator maintains a private suite. Very private. Perfect for discussing private matters. If you both will follow me, I’ve got a Packard parked on the street.”
Von Papen grabbed his bag and, along with Noyes, followed the strange young man with the crazy eyes whom he had instantly distrusted.
After Earl Long had settled von Papen and Noyes into their rooms at the Roosevelt, he escorted them down to the first floor and led them into The Cave, the Roosevelt’s high-end restaurant. As its name implied, it had been decorated to resemble an underground grotto, complete with small waterfalls and ponds. Seated in a nook farthest from the entrance, was Senator Long, eating a juicy steak while chatting with a local judge. To either side of the table stood two large, beefy men with bulges under their left armpits. The hour was early, and there were no other diners. Earl Long ambled nonchalantly up to the table and said, “Brother Huey, here are your two visitors from out of town, just as you asked.”
The Senator scowled at his sibling. “How many times I gotta tell you Earl, in front of others it’s ‘Senator’. Gotta show respect for the office.”
“Sorry Hu—Senator. Anyway, here they are.”
Long spoke to his dinner guest. “Judge, I hope you’ll forgive me, but my visitors’ time is short. If you’ll excuse us, you can come back tomorrow morning for breakfast and we can continue our talk.”
“Of course, Senator,” muttered the small, rather plump man dutifully. He maneuvered his chair backward, stumbling clumsily before scurrying out of the restaurant. Long then gestured to his bodyguards and said, “Move off a-ways. Make sure neither you, nor anyone else is close enough to hear.” They acknowledged their orders with grunts and moved off. Senator Long turned his attention to his brother and the two newcomers, gesturing for them to sit.
“Brother Earl, I’ve not met either of these folks. Care to do the introductions?”
“Surely, Hu—er—Senator. This here is Mr. Jackson Noyes, senior partner in the Boston law firm of Marsh, Pabodie, Pickman, and Noyes. His firm is very influential in the politics of New England. Much less publicly, he is on the Council of Starry Wisdom, which can deploy similar power, but only on a very discreet level.” Noyes confidently shook the Senator’s hand.
“Heard of your law firm in Washington City,” said Senator Long. “People say it’s got a lot of influence in both parties. I’ve also heard rumors about Starry Wisdom—some really crazy stuff. On a previous visit by one of your people, he tried to tell me some of what it could do for me. Now, I’ve heard a lot of shinola in my political career, but what he told me … well, you’ll have to pardon my skepticism. I think your man got himself into some bad moonshine and stretched the truth just a little bit.”
“You can believe it, Senator,” interrupted von Papen in a hoarse voice. “Whatever he has been telling you, you can believe it.”
“My apologies,” said Noyes. “Senator, let me introduce you to Franz von Papen, former Chancellor of Germany, and until two months ago, Vice Chancellor under their new Leader. My friends in Starry Wisdom felt that it would be useful to bring in the resources that the new, reinvigorated Germany can make available to us.”
Von Papen did not offer his hand, but nodded his head slightly. “Senator, as you can imagine, interfering in the government of a country with which Germany is currently at peace, is a monumental step. The Leader wishes to assure himself that Germany’s resources will be used wisely, that our role in changing the government will not become known, and that the plan is certain of success.”
Senator Long frowned. “I expect we are in agreement on your one point—the whole country would go plumb nuts if they thought the Krauts were supporting me. But you said I could trust what Mr. Noyes says about the abilities of Starry Wisdom. Just why is that?”
Noyes answered for the German. “I’ve taken our guest on a little tour of our facilities, introduced him to some of our … allies. That convinced him that they could deliver as I said. Isn’t that right, Mr. von Papen?”
At this, von Papen glanced at Noyes, and began to sweat. Under other circumstances, it may have been the New Orleans heat and humidity. He turned his attention back to Senator Long, and in a quiet voice said, “Yes, Starry Wisdom can provide you a great deal of help. Just pray to God you will not need it.”
Long seemed to chew on his lip. “I don’t expect you Krauts are helping me because you believe in my Share the Wealth plan. Just what will you expect in return?”
Thinking back to his last meeting with the blond monster Heydrich, von Papen shivered slightly before answering. “The Leader has certain plans for the future. He would like assurances that—”
“Perhaps we should not be discussing details in a public restaurant,” interrupted Noyes smoothly. “Besides, we are hungry and need some rest. Is there some private place, truly private, where we could have some extended discussions tomorrow?”
Before the Senator could answer, his brother eagerly said, “Huey—damn—Senator, we’ve got a good little suite upstairs. We could all meet up there around 9:00, after our visitors have had a chance for a little rest. Sound agreeable to everyone?”
Senator Long looked around the table. No objections were raised. “Well then, that’s settled. Let me order you gentlemen a fine New Orleans dinner, and we’ll make an early night of it.”
It was getting dark when Harry Bierce pulled his Hudson convertible into the driveway of Judge Benjamin Pavy’s colonial revival house. He had only taken a short nap in his room at the Roosevelt before he got up and called his friend in the local Bureau office, asking if he knew anyone hostile to Senator Long who would talk to him. The friend had hesitantly recommended Judge Pavy, a well-respected and honorable jurist who had somehow come afoul of the Long Machine. The Judge’s reputation for honesty and integrity was unsullied, despite many attempts by Long to tarnish his character, including widespread whisperings that the judge had some black ancestry. Normally, this would be a devastating charge in the Deep South, but the people of his district either didn’t believe it, or they didn’t care. In short, Judge Pavy could be a sterling witness on the stand, if Long were ever brought to trial.
Bierce walked up to the front door and rapped three times. The door was opened by a tall, heavy-set man in his fifties, with a full shock of white hair, dressed in a somewhat wrinkled, white linen suit.
“Judge Pavy?” asked Bierce, taking off his hat in a show of respect.
“I am,” the man said in a profound, commanding voice that must have been the terror of all lawyers in his district.
“Agent Harry Bierce of the Department of Investigation. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Well, come in,” boomed Pavy. “Let me take your hat.” As Bierce entered the hallway, he handed his homburg to the judge, who placed it neatly on a side table, then gestured to the first door on the right.
Bierce entered a vast room, which must have taken up a third of the ground floor. Yet the comfortable, lived-in furnishings scattered about the room made it seem welcoming rather than grand. Seated on a large sofa was a plump woman about the same age as the judge. Beside her was a younger, thinner version of herself, cradling a baby in her arms while holding a bottle. Bierce immediately liked her; women in Judge Pavy’s class usually handed off all caring and feeding of infants to servants. Standing behind the couch was a thin, dark, bespectacled man who was gently massaging the young woman’s shoulders, but his cold, suspicious eyes glared at Bierce through thick lenses.
“Mr. Bierce, I hope you don’t mind these people being present during our discussions, but I get so little time with my family I want to share with them every moment I can. The silver-haired beauty is the love of my life, my wife Ida. Beside her is the only slightly more beautiful Yvonne, our daughter, who is holding her son Carl. And behind the couch is the man who has made my daughter so happy, Dr. Carl Weiss, Sr. Everyone, this is Agent Harry Bierce, from the Bureau of Investigation. He is trying to make a case for trying our beloved Senator Long on Federal charges in Federal Court. Have a seat, Agent Bierce. Care for a drink?”
“Thank you, but no, Judge,” replied Bierce as he settled himself into an armchair directly across from the long couch. Judge Pavy shrugged, then poured himself a whiskey from the drink cart before taking a seat between his daughter and wife. Having taken a sip, Pavy told Bierce, “Fire away, Mr Bierce.”
“My sources tell me that you are the greatest opponent of the Long machine in the state. Would you say that is true?”
The Judge chuckled ruefully. “Your sources are too kind. Our esteemed Senator has many enemies in Louisiana. The trouble with most of them is that their only problem with the Long machine is that it freezes them out of the spoils. I am certain it comes as no surprise to you that Louisiana is monumentally corrupt, has been since the Civil War. Each parish is run by a local ‘courthouse gang’, usually centered around whoever is their sheriff. The mayor of New Orleans heads his own machine—not big enough to run the state, but big enough to make even Huey sit up and take notice from time to time.”
“What issues divide them?”
“Issues?” The Judge laughed bitterly. “It’s all about the spoils. Whose cousin is appointed to which state job, which county gets a new road, what town will have a state hospital built. Aside from unanimous agreement that the Negro should be denied any trace of political power, issues seldom come into it. The only thing that can unite them is that Huey Long doesn’t share any of the spoils.” The judge took another drink and tipped the glass at Bierce. “That, and the fact he does not respect the rich families that have pretty much run things in this state since the last century.”
“Is that the reason you oppose him, frustrated ambition?” asked Bierce quietly.
“An interesting question,” replied Pavy, who took another sip of his drink. “I suppose I am ambitious. Most men are. But I’m not ambitious for money, patronage, or even high office. I guess I’m ambitious for Louisiana. You’ve a bit of a Southern accent, Agent Bierce. Your people from Texas or Kentucky?” When Bierce didn’t answer immediately, Pavy continued. “Doesn’t matter. You’re a Southerner. You know how we feel about home and honor. Louisiana is my home, has been all of my life. I love her almost as much as I love my wife and daughter. But it pains me, Mr. Bierce, to the core, to see what people in other states think of my home. A land of shoeless crackers and shiftless darkies, a land of corrupt officials in white linen suits, a backward place where the KKK hangs innocent Negros and allows white killers to go free. A land where there is one form of justice for rich whites, another for poor blacks. That’s not the whole truth, Mr. Bierce, but there is enough truth in it to make me angry and ashamed.
“So, I decided to do what I could to bring Louisiana into the twentieth century. I became a lawyer, and I defended the poor and powerless, no matter what their race. People hereabouts got to know me, got to know I couldn’t be bought, got to know I wanted to make Louisiana a better place, and eventually they made me judge. In my sinful pride, that was my ambition—to be known as a good and just man, so I could become a judge. Yet, despite my sin of pride, for which I pray for forgiveness nightly, I have done genuine good in my little part of this state.”
Without a trace of sarcasm, Bierce said, “I would have thought that your devotion to reform would have made you a supporter of Senator Long. Many have told me he has done much good in this state.”
“What good is reform, even prosperity, if we lose our freedom? Already Louisiana is close to a dictatorship. I am one of only a handful of elected officials who are not creatures of the Long machine. Whatever he wants done is done. Even the current governor is well known to be only a recording of Senator Long’s voice, and he cannot tolerate even a smidgen of dissent from his will. There is a bill currently before the legislature to physically move my district to a heavily pro-Long area, denying me reelection. Every educated person sees that Long wants to be dictator of Louisiana, and after that, of the entire United States. That is the reason why in two days the few members of the legislature who are not in Long’s pocket will spring a motion to impeach our governor, sending a message to Long. It has little chance of success, even as a surprise, but we have to try something.”
“Judge, you are a fool,” interrupted Dr. Weiss in a bitter voice. “Long has discovered the secret of success that will sweep him into the White House: his Share the Wealth plan. He has discovered that a politician who proposes to rob Peter to pay Paul will always win, so long as there are fewer Peters than Pauls.”
Pavy frowned at his son-in-law. “Carl, you have to have more faith in the people than that. They can be made to realize that if one part of them can be treated unjustly, all of them will eventually be so treated.”
“I wish I could have your faith. I really do, Judge. But remember that two years ago, I was performing my residency in Vienna. The residency itself was fine, and I learned a lot, but that was the time when the Nazis were taking over power in Germany, just across the border. The refugees, mainly Jewish, were bad enough. What was worse was the reaction of the Austrian people. Instead of pity, those fleeing the Fascists were mocked and cursed; sometimes stones and bricks were thrown at them, all the while the mobs chanting the Leader’s name with hysterical joy.”
Pavy waved his hands to quiet his son-in-law. “Carl, you are taking this too hard. That’s because of your Jewish ancestry. Europe is not America. We are more tolerant here.”
Weiss’s face twisted into an expression of bitterness. “Judge, you are a good man, but you overestimate the number of good people. Try growing up in the South with a name like Weiss. And the joke is that I’m not Jewish! I’m Catholic, as is my father, as was his father. Good people, indeed! Don’t tell me you didn’t read about the lynching of that black man up in Caddo last week. The Sheriff watched as they castrated the man before hanging him! How many other such lynchings are there in a year throughout the South?”
In an uneasy voice, Pavy replied, “Those were exceptions. I never denied there are bad people in the world, and that they will always be with us, but they are small in number.”
“That is where we differ. There are enough to elect Long as president, so long as he keeps promising to give to them what the wealthy have. They are too stupid to realize that Long is forging chains of gold that will make us all slaves, not just the blacks!” Weiss’s voice had risen to a loud, shrill screech, and his wife placed a comforting hand on his arm. He looked down at her and made a visible effort to control his breathing. “My apologies, Judge, I did not mean to treat you with disrespect. You have been so good to me, better than I deserve. My nerves sometimes run away with me. I will take a walk around the house to let the night air help cure me.” Weiss bowed stiffly to his parents-in-law and to Bierce, then kissed his embarrassed wife, and left the room at a fast, nervous clip.
Pavy turned his attention back to Bierce and laughed nervously. “My apologies, Agent Bierce. My son-in-law is a fine man, a respected doctor who volunteers free services to the poor, white or black. The atrocities he saw in Europe have embittered him. He cannot understand that Europe is different from America. Even if Long were to gain the White House, he would not act like that thug in Berlin.” Pavy shook his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, I don’t have much more to tell you. I’ve long suspected that a forger named Rocha had done many illegal things for Long. As you already know, that is a dead end, literally. They fished the low-life’s body out of the Mississippi last month. I can give you the names of some other criminals I suspect of working for the Long machine. You may be able to get one or more of them to talk, although I would not bet the farm on it. Then you might be able to get a jury to convict, although I wouldn’t risk the farm on that, either. Still, I’m glad someone in Washington is interested in stopping Long. It gives me some hope.”
Bierce took a small notebook and pencil from an inner pocket of his coat. “Please give me the names anyway. I can be quite persuasive.”
Harry Bierce seldom felt tired, yet this was one of the few times. Having been unable to find a parking spot closer than two blocks from the Roosevelt, his normally brisk stride had slowed almost to a trudge. Judge Pavy had given him some names, it was true, but the Judge had cautioned him that they would be unlikely to have directly witnessed any corruption by Huey Long himself. Bierce’s exhaustion was more psychological than physical. He was beginning to believe that Senator Long might be truly untouchable.
Bierce was about thirty yards from the entrance to the Roosevelt when a taxi skidded to a stop with a screech of brakes right in the triangle of light thrown out of the entrance. The instant the cab stopped, a door was thrown open and a tall, thin man erupted from the vehicle, his face reddened with rage. A large, heavyset man followed close behind, throwing some bills at the driver as he exited.
The second man called after the first in a voice revealing the speaker’s Boston origin. “Wait!” the man cried, “I only meant to be hospitable. New Orleans is famous for the many and varied pleasures it can provide the visitor. I had no notion you would take it this way.”
The first man whirled. Bierce could see the man was in the grip of a barely suppressed fury. In a lightly German-accented voice he replied, “You pig! I am only here because of the threats your friends in my country have made against my wife and children. My every waking thought is consumed by worry for them, by my love for them, and you took me to a whorehouse!”
The second man laughed, saying, “I am truly sorry. I had no idea our mutual friends have proceeded with such a heavy hand.”
Seeing the face of the second man, hearing his accent, Bierce was briefly frozen with shock. He recognized the man. Noyes. Jackson Noyes. Bierce’s mind flashed back to 1928 and to one of his very few failures.
Bierce had been working out of the Bureau’s Boston office. By pure chance he had been in the reception office when Professor Wilmarth, a folklorist at Miskatonic University in Arkham, had stumbled in, shouting incoherently about the murder of a Vermont farmer named Akeley, and the need for the Federal Government to take action, as the local authorities would not. Most of the staff laughed at Wilmarth and made not-so-subtle comments about how even university professors were violating Prohibition. Wilmarth, however, was not drunk. He was, quite simply, terrified for himself and for others. Bierce had taken the professor into a room, talked soothingly to him, and finally managed to get a story of some wild cult in the hills of Vermont that had somehow made away with a farmer named Akeley, a long-time correspondent of Wilmarth’s. Wilmarth said the cult was made up of some men, possibly led by a Bostonian named Jackson Noyes and, unbelievably, some sort of intelligent creatures from outer space.
Bierce believed Wilmarth was telling the truth, insofar as the Arkham professor understood it. Bierce had some experience with extreme cults and knew they occasionally used exotic drugs to make members have seemingly supernatural visions. He believed Wilmarth had been fed some such drug, and so discounted the tale of creatures from outer space. On his own, Bierce did some investigation, and found that the farmer Akeley existed and that he, along with many others, had disappeared from Vermont, never to be found, alive or dead. He also found that there really was an Jackson Noyes, a prominent Boston attorney who was rumored to dabble in fringe occult activities at Harvard and Miskatonic. After one disturbing meeting with a smirking Noyes, Bierce decided that something was most definitely foul, probably murderously foul, had been going on in those Vermont Hills, and that he would do his best to bring Noyes and those who conspired with him to justice.
And for one of the very few times in his varied lifetime, Bierce failed. Akeley’s body was never recovered. The Boston Brahmins gathered around Noyes, although there were some hints that this may have been due more to fear than to any liking for the portly attorney. At the end of the day, all Bierce had was Wilmarth. And despite his solid reputation in the academic community, Wilmarth made a pathetic witness. Whatever had been done to the professor had made him a nervous, neurotic wreck. Noyes, acting as his own defense attorney, had torn Wilmarth to bits on the stand. Bierce had cautioned Wilmarth not to dwell on the so-called creatures that Wilmarth insisted he had seen, but under Noyes’ cross-examination he had ended up screaming that Noyes and others were allied with monsters from another world wishing to use the earth for their own benefit. The laughter from the jury box told Bierce what the verdict would be long before it was delivered.
Out of pity, Bierce arranged for Wilmarth to receive extended treatment from a brilliant psychiatrist in New York, who eventually convinced the professor that the monsters he had seen had been figments of drugs slipped to him by Noyes and his fellow cultists. The professor was restored to his duties at Miskatonic University, and as nearly as Bierce could learn, was now living a calm and reasonably well-adjusted life. Immediately after the trial, Bierce had done additional investigation in the isolated green hills of rural Vermont, and had found traces that may have corroborated Wilmarth’s story. It seemed that there had been some large mining operations—not listed in any government records—that had been abruptly abandoned. Most of the equipment had been removed, but Bierce had recovered some curious pieces of metal of uncertain purpose or origin. He had taken them to scientists at M.I.T. who claimed they resembled no alloy on Earth and could not even say with certainty what minerals had been used to the forge the metals. In the ensuing years, Bierce had seen to it that the Bureau kept track of Noyes and his activities, but nothing out of the ordinary had been noticed.
Until now.
Bierce could not imagine what the socially connected Boston lawyer was doing in New Orleans. He supposed it could be an innocent vacation, but the words exchanged between the German and Noyes indicated it might be something much more serious.
Noyes continued to try to soothe the German. “My apologies. I had assumed that such, ah, entertainment would be to your taste. Berlin is known world-wide for its free and easy ways.”
“You speak of the Nazi street trash, and the criminals who gather in any large capital. I am a Prussian officer, sir! I would not bring such disgrace upon myself or my wife.”
“Well, well, accept my apologies. I was completely in the wrong. Now, it is time for us to meet with the senator. We all have interests and goals in common.”
“So I am told,” muttered the German. “Let us get this matter concluded.”
“Very well. The senator is in his suite on the twelfth floor. Let’s go up now. It shouldn’t take too much time.”
Bierce’s brain slipped effortlessly into high gear. The darkness had kept the two men from noticing him, which left him free to take action. The conversation between Noyes and his accomplice indicated something disreputable, perhaps illegal, involving Senator Long. It seemed to Bierce that fate had finally dealt him a winning hand. If he could only overhear what was discussed, the knowledge might allow him to bring down Long and finally destroy the slippery Noyes. But how was he to overhear? There was no time to place a wiretap. The hall outside Long’s suite would be filled with thugs. The rooms, too, on either side of the suite would undoubtedly be empty, as Long was certain to assure his conversations were not overheard.
Bierce looked upward at the dimly lit façade of the Roosevelt Hotel. Every few stories, a narrow, stone ledge circled the building, probably meant to facilitate window cleaning. A plan formed in his head—a plan that would have terrified most people, but not Harry Bierce.
After allowing Noyes and his companion plenty of time to get to the senators suite, Bierce strolled casually into the lobby, nodding to the night clerk, who recognized him. He entered one of the elevators, asking the operator to take him to the twelfth floor. After exiting the car, a quick look to the right showed the entrance to Long’s suite, guarded by the young gunsel with crazy eyes, who Bierce had met on his last visit to the Senator. This was a piece of bad luck. Keeping his head low, hoping that he would not be recognized, Bierce turned left then grabbed the doorknob to room 22, the first room to the left of the elevators. Using his body to shield his actions from the young gunman, he produced his lock pick and in seconds had unlocked the door. Like most hotel locks, opening it was child’s play to someone with training. Now, thought Bierce, comes the risky part.
Pocketing his small tool, he slipped into the room, locking the door behind him. The lights were on, and Bierce could hear the sound of splashing from behind the closed bathroom door. He had feared that the room would be occupied and had planned to flash his Bureau badge to gain the co-operation of any such occupant. No need, the emanating sounds were uninterrupted, indicating the bather was unaware of his visitor. With catlike tread, Bierce crossed to the window, which like most windows in the hotel was wide open in deference to the muggy nighttime heat of a New Orleans summer. Bierce took a deep breath, and steadying himself by holding the sides of the window frame, he stepped up and onto the window frame, then out onto the narrow stone ledge.
Bierce estimated the ledge to be about six inches wide. Not as wide as it had appeared from the ground, but not too narrow for the short trip he planned. Keeping his arms and back flat against the brick wall he slowly slid his left foot sideways, next bringing his right foot up alongside. After a quick calculation, he found that three windows lay between him and the nearest of the windows of Long’s suite. Bierce knew that the one nearest to the senator’s room would be empty, but he could not be certain about the other two. He continued. Slide with left, slide with right. Soon he was at the first window. It was open, but no sound or light came from inside. He navigated the opening without incident. Slide left, slide right. Then he came to the second window between him and his goal.
It was dark within this room as well, but Bierce’s sensitive ears picked up the sound of soft snoring. As quietly as he could, Bierce continued his sliding journey. He had just cleared the window when he heard a sharp gasp, and a woman’s voice say, “Ronnie, wake up! There’s someone outside the window!”
This was followed by a snort, and a man’s voice said, “Goddamnit, woman! Why’d you wake me up? Gotta bourbon headache I need to sleep off!”
“Ronnie, I woke up and saw the shadow of a man at the window!”
“Hell, you were matching me drink for drink tonight. Your man must’ve jumped right otta the neck of a bottle. Or you saw a bird fly by the window. There’s no man out there … it’s a twelve story drop to the street. Forget about it and go back to sleep. And next time, go easy on the hooch.”
Bierce heard the sound of a large body rolling over in the bed and settling in. After a few mutterings in a woman’s voice, silence reigned. He breathed a sigh of relief, and continued his journey.
He passed the empty room flanking Long’s suite without incident. As he approached Long’s window, the voices inside became more distinct. By the time he reached the window’s edge, he could hear everything inside perfectly.
“You’re mighty optimistic, Mr. von Papen, mighty optimistic,” said a voice that was undoubtedly that of Senator Long. “I’m not even president yet and you want to dictate policy to me. Mighty peculiar.”
“Not dictate, Senator,” replied the voice with a German accent. “We simply wish to see our international interests align. We have no desire to try to influence in any way your domestic agenda.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Long’s voice had acquired a sarcastic tone. “Let me tell you something. I admire a lot of the stuff your boss is doing—dragging your country out of a depression, building good roads, all that—but I don’t like what you’re doing with your Jews. Don’t like it at all. I won’t be doing any of that, and the people wouldn’t stand for it if I tried.”
“I am sure that the Leader will agree that your Jews are entirely your business,” replied von Papen, who was sure of no such thing. “Our two nations will always address their internal issues differently. All the leader wishes in return for our financial support is your assurance that should France and England again try to oppress Germany, the United States will stay neutral.”
There was a considerable pause, then Long said, “I think I can agree to that. The folks feel they got nothing out of the last war, and wouldn’t get anything out of a new one either.”
“I see that we are in accord, Senator. It now remains to see if you will be able to honor your commitments to the friends of Mr. Noyes.”
“Mighty strange requests they are. You say they want exclusive fishing rights off the New England and Gulf coasts, and a guarantee of there being no submarine or deep-diving operations in those areas? Mighty strange, indeed, and I don’t know how our fishing interests are going to feel about that.”
Noyes spoke, “Let me remind you, Senator, that my friends will make available to you, two metric tons of gold in bullion, utterly untraceable. I hardly need calculate what that would be worth in cash money. Nearly half again as much as what the Leader will provide you. No competitor, not even Roosevelt himself, will be able to overcome the advantage such wealth will give you.”
There was another lengthy pause, then Long said, “Well, I expect we’ve got a deal, gentlemen. Everyone is getting a little something from it, and that’s how politics goes.” Long paused again. “You might as well know it now, even if it will be a total surprise to my enemies. Tomorrow afternoon, up in Baton Rouge, I will be declaring my intention to run for President of the United States in 1936.”
“Huey, that’s too goddamn early!” exclaimed Earl Long.
“Little brother, we need to start now, seeing as how we are getting the wherewithal from our new friends. Throughout his career, people have underestimated that crippled bastard. I will not be making that mistake. Anyway, you fellers want to be in Baton Rouge to witness a bit of history?”
“I must be catching a train tomorrow,” replied von Papen stiffly.
“I would love to be there, Senator, but I’ve neglected my firm’s affairs for too long,” added Noyes smoothly.
“Huey—ah, Senator—you know I’ll be there,” chipped in Earl Long. “Been with you straight from the beginning. Wouldn’t miss this for the contents of the deduct box.”
“Very good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a big day, a glorious day, and I need to get enough rest to be at my best.”
Bierce had heard enough. He began the slow shuffle back to the room through which he had entered. The dangerous walk was uneventful, except at one point where an agitated female voice whispered, “Ronnie! Wake up! I tell you there’s a man at the window!”
A muffled male voice replied, “I’m not telling you again, woman! Shut up and go to sleep!
Dr. Carl Weiss stood in front of his bathroom mirror, carefully inspecting his suit and tie, brushing away the few traces of lint. He looked down at his black oxfords, and confirmed that they were polished to a bright shine. Then he looked himself straight in the face. His eyes, always intense, now looked like burning coals in the center of black pits. That saddened him. He knew he would probably be dead within twenty-four hours, but he did not want his remains to look as if they belonged to a slovenly, wild-eyed anarchist. He was the son-in-law of the great Judge Pavy, a man he genuinely admired, and did not wish to embarrass more than necessary. Pavy was a good man, a great man, the greatest he had ever personally known.
Nonetheless, the Judge had not seen with his own eyes the refugees from Nazi Germany, pouring over the border into Austria, only to find the Austrians being infected with the virus of Nazism. After Agent Bierce had left, the Judge mentioned that his friends had heard rumors that Long would be making an announcement the next day from the capital building in Baton Rouge. Pavy groused that it was probably about some new plan to loot the state, or steal from the rich to give to the voters. In a flash of intuition, Weiss knew what the announcement would be, and knew that action must be taken immediately—before it was too late.
“Long might not end up as bad as that jumped-up corporal,” Weiss said to his reflection, “but he might be even worse and that chance cannot be taken. The Judge will never be brought to understand that the freedom of the entire nation is hanging by a thread. This is the only way.” He reached into an inner pocket of his coat, and withdrew a compact Colt .32 automatic. He looked at it for nearly a minute, marveling at how small the sleek, blue-black weapon looked. He snapped the slide to bring a cartridge up from the magazine to the barrel, then returned the Colt to his coat pocket.
As quietly as possible, Weiss turned out the bathroom light, opened the door, and moved into the bedroom, lit only by a dim nightlight. Walking ever so softly, he went over to the cradle that held his sleeping son and kissed him on the top of his head. He wanted very much to do the same to his wife, but Yvonne was sleeping restlessly, turning from side to side, and he dared not wake her. She knew him inside out. If she woke, she would know what he intended, and would do all she could to stop him. So he walked softly to the door of the bedroom, opened it and involuntarily extended a trembling hand toward his wife, barely stifling a sob. Then he left, trying to think only of the long drive to Baton Rouge, and failing.
Flashing his badge while at the same time laying a ten dollar bill on the counter, Bierce obtained Noyes’ room number from the ogle-eyed night clerk. As he was about to turn away, the German marched up to the counter, slapped some currency down to pay for his bill, and imperiously demanded that a cab be summoned immediately. Bierce debated with himself whether to arrest the German, but decided that Noyes was the more important figure. Therefore, he ignored von Papen and walked toward the elevators. Passing them, he entered the stairwell. He did not wish to be noticed and remembered by one of the elevator operators. Besides, he realized that the exhaustion he had felt earlier in the day was completely gone, and now, he felt the need to burn off some energy.
He ran effortlessly up the ten flights to Noyes’ floor, scarcely breaking a sweat. Quiet as a mouse, he approached the door to Noyes’ room. Placing his ear against the flimsy wood, he heard the sound of running water. Knowing that Noyes would be occupied in the bathroom, Bierce brought out his lock pick, and within moments had gained entry to the room. Softly closing the door to the hall, he drew his .45 Colt and silently waited.
A toilet flushed noisily in the bathroom. Moments later, the sound of water running in a sink replaced it. Bierce waited. Finally, the door to the bathroom opened and out stepped Noyes, drying his hands with a small towel, humming a happy tune. The large, plump man took two clumsy steps back as he caught sight of Bierce and his automatic, but he immediately regained his cynical good humor.
Throwing the towel back into the bathroom, he smiled and said, “Well, well, if it isn’t Agent Bierce. It is indeed a small world. We haven’t met since that day in court when I showed what a neurotic madman that fool Wilmarth was.”
“You and I both know Wilmarth told the truth on the stand. It was the abuse and drugs you inflicted on him that turned an inoffensive scholar into a quivering wreck of a man. You and I both know that you, or your group, murdered a respected farmer, and quite possibly others.”
“A judge and jury decided otherwise, Agent Bierce. I am an innocent, respected attorney, with friends in the highest places of government. The matter is settled. So, what brings you to my room?”
“I overheard your discussions with Senator Long, along with his brother and the German, and I am arresting you for treason. Your only hope of avoiding the chair is to testify against Senator Long.”
Noyes looked shocked, but not for long. “I utterly deny any such discussions.”
“I can testify they took place.”
“Really? Tell me, Agent Bierce, did you obtain a warrant for your spying on me? Let me remind you that under the Supreme Court’s exclusionary rule, evidence of conversations taken without a warrant is not admissible in a court of law. Do you have any other evidence of these so-called discussions? Do you? I can tell from your silence that you do not.”
Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, Bierce’s pale blue eyes had acquired a strange, glowing intensity. “Nonetheless, I am arresting you and taking you to jail.”
“Agent Bierce, really. I would be out in as long as it would take to wire certain friends in Massachusetts. There would never be a trial. I will guarantee that your persistent attempts to have me convicted of murder, attempts that were rejected by a jury of my peers, were signs of derangement on your part, of paranoid delusions. I nearly had your badge the last time you tried this. Rest assured I will get it this time. In fact, I believe I will sue for damages. You will be eating out of trash bins before I am finished with you.” Noyes took his jacket from the bed, put it on, and straightened his tie. “Shall we go? This will be fun.”
In a motion so fast it seemed a blur, Bierce brought the barrel of his heavy automatic crashing down on Noyes’ head. The Bostonian fell to his knees, too stunned to even cry out. Quickly holstering his gun, Bierce grabbed the semi-conscious Noyes under the armpits, dragged him to the open window, and stuffed him through it. Noyes came to enough to utter an agonized scream, which ended with a wet crunch as he hit the pavement ten stories below.
Bierce glanced out the window, his face expressionless, and then muttered, “You were right. There will be no trial.” He then quietly left the room. No one was in the hall to see him in the stairwell as he went to his own room to pack his few belongings and check out before the Roosevelt was crawling with local police.
Through an open window two stories above Noyes room, a woman’s voice exclaimed “Ronnie! I heard a man scream!”
“For the last time, SHUT UP woman, and go to sleep!”
The procession consisted of five vehicles: four police cars, two in front, two in the rear, sirens blaring, filled with heavily armed state police. The fifth car was a large open Packard, with a driver and bodyguard in the front seat. Senator Long, Governor O.K. King, Earl Long, and the Senator’s beloved son Russell, current star football player at Louisiana State University, were all crowded in the back. The convoy of vehicles rolled up to the capitol building in Baton Rouge, while the crowds, who had been waiting for hours, went wild. As the men exited the car, uniformed officers cleared a path for them. The Senator bound up the steps, followed by his excited brother and son. Governor King, a willing tool of the Long machine, was excited as well, but his bulk and incipient heart disease dictated a more stately ascension on the capital’s steps. At the top stood two separate groups of the National Guard, strictly at attention, Thompson submachine guns ported across their burly chests. The Long party inserted themselves between the two groups.
Russell Long leaned over to Earl Long and virtually shouted in his ear, “Uncle, look at this! Where did they all come from?”
“Our boys have been rounding up the faithful since late last night, nephew.”
“But do they know he’s going to announce he’s running for President? I thought that was a secret.”
“It is, although many of them probably have guessed. But for most, all they needed to know is that your dad wanted them to come. They love him. And he loves them. Look at him, and look at the crowd!”
Russell did as he was told. He looked at his father who was holding his arms high above his head, eyes shining with excitement, looking down at the crowd. The senator’s love for his followers was transparently sincere. The crowd yelled and cheered, looking at their savior with adoration and hope: adoration for what he had already done for them, hope for the more he would do in the future.
At the edge of the crowd nearest to the soaring monument that was the Louisiana Capital, stood an expressionless Harry Bierce. As he scanned the crowd, he shook his head ever so slightly. Although his face did not reflect it, his thoughts were melancholy. He understood how the people would be grateful for the services Long had brought, services denied them by a corrupt ruling elite, but he was depressed by the thought that the people were trading away their freedoms—freedoms unique in the history of the world—for bread and fishes.
Senator Long ceremoniously made quieting motions with his hands. Amazingly, the crowd quieted like a switch had been thrown. A soldier scurried up and placed a clumsy-looking microphone before the senator. Long tapped on the microphone, and was answered by multiple taps from loudspeakers on the tops of various trucks placed on the edges of the crowd.
Without preamble, he began to speak, “My friends, today I bring you great news! As you all know, I have gone to Washington City to persuade our President and Congress to enact the “Share the Wealth” program that I announced earlier this year. Well, that has not worked as well as I had hoped. No sir, it has not. Congress has been bought and paid for by Wall Street, my friends, bought and paid for! The bankers! The moneylenders!”
“The Jews!” came scattered yells from the crowd. Long frowned for an instant, but then continued.
“My friends, the religion of these people does not matter. What matters is what is being done to hold down the good, hard-working Christian people of this nation. These Wall Street people, these Rockefellers, Morgans, Carnegies, and Mellons aim to keep you all down my friends, all down! Even our President, Mr. Roosevelt, is afraid of them!
“Now, you may wonder how, with all of that, I can dare say that I bring you good news?
“Well, I can! Today, my dear friends, I announce my campaign for the Democratic nomination for President of the United States in 1936!”
The crowd went insane with joy—yelling, cheering, many shedding tears of happiness. Hope was palpable, like a viscous thing permeating everything. Long allowed this to go on for ten minutes before gesturing for quiet.
“Yes friends, I am going to take the movement we began here in Louisiana to the other forty-seven states. I will show the poor, the downtrodden, those without hope, those from Maine to California, that they can believe in this country again. I will take the nomination from the weakling Roosevelt, who has proven so unable to resist Wall Street. I will sweep into Washington City with a mandate from the people of this country, and I will make Congress obey that mandate, by any means necessary. I will see to it that the ‘Share the Wealth’ program is immediately implemented.”
Bierce listened as Long recited the same ‘Every Man a King’ speech he’d given previously. Taking away from the rich to give to the poor. Handing annual stipends to each and every family, a reduced workweek, picking the best to go to college on the government’s dime. Ridiculous, thought Bierce. No, he corrected himself, Socialism. But not Roosevelt’s socialism. This was something altogether different.
Finally completely his speech, Long asked the crowed, “Now, my friends, do you think that this would make every man in this country a king?”
“YES!” screamed the crowd hysterically. Then seemingly out of nowhere, the LSU marching band and a chorus appeared on the steps, and began performing “Every Man a King.” The crowd joined into the lyrics with unmusical, but enthusiastic yells.
Harry Bierce for the first time understood how it must have felt for Cicero, that devout supporter of the Roman Republic, to watch Julius Caesar address the crowds, and have them respond with unthinking adoration, throwing their freedoms down at the feet of the Great Man. As he turned away with disgust, he spotted a lean, well-dressed man walking quickly toward the unguarded side entrance of the Capitol building. Bierce recognized the man instantly as Dr. Weiss, son-in-law to Judge Pavy, intense hater of Huey Long and all of his works. In a burst of intuition, he realized what the intense young man intended. Weaving through the cheering people at the edge of the crowd, Bierce began running faster than an observer would have thought possible.
Senator Long had quieted the crowd once again. “Now my friends, you must excuse me. There are still officials in Louisiana who oppose your will. One of them is the tool of the Wall Street financiers, Judge Pavy. However, my friends I have yet more good news for you. As we speak, our friends in the legislature are voting to abolish the Judge’s district. He will no longer be able to hinder your progress and happiness. In fact, after I leave you, I am going to congratulate the legislature on their foresight. But remember, soon—very soon—every last man of you will be a king!” As Long and his party entered the Capitol, the band and chorus again struck up “Every Man a King” and the joyous crowd joined in at the top of their lungs.
The smiling Huey Long entered the rotunda, flanked by his brother and Governor King, his son Russell right behind him. Behind Russell came two hulking bodyguards in plain clothes and two granite-faced state policeman. “Brother Earl,” Huey said to his brother, “this is the beginning of a great crusade! There will soon need to be a distribution of the pie.”
“Pie?” asked a confused Earl Long.
“Certainly. There is only so much pie. Those who join the crusade early will get big pieces of the pie. Those who join later will get small pieces of the pie. Those not joining at all, those like Judge Pavy, will get … good government!” Laughing at his own cynical joke, he turned to Governor King. “Let’s go into the chamber and meet the legislature. I need to determine who will be getting what slice of pie….”
Huey Long’s voice trailed off. He stopped dead in his tracks. Before him stood an intense young man with glasses, pointing a small automatic pistol at him. Long did not recognize the young man. Without it really registering, Long heard rapid footfalls echoing down an adjacent marble corridor.
Weiss fired twice. He would have emptied the magazine, but the casing of the second cartridge jammed the ejection port. As Senator Long screamed “Kill him! Kill him!” his four guards surged forward and cut Weiss down with one shot each. “Father!” screamed young Russell Long as the guards gathered around Weiss’s already dead body and emptied their weapons into it, two of them crying as they did so. The explosions of gunfire echoed and re-echoed through the marble corridors; bullets that had missed Weiss or passed through his body ricocheted everywhere. No one noticed Bierce’s arrival in the rotunda.
The moment the shooting stopped, Harry Bierce advanced toward the corpse, shaking his head at the damage thirty high-caliber bullets could do to the human body. He then turned his head at the sound of the senator’s groaning. There was a small rift in Long’s shirtfront; blood was trickling out of it.
As Russell continued shouting hysterically, Earl Long grabbed him by the shoulders. “Calm down!” he said. “It’s not that bad. It’s not bleeding much, and your dad’s still standing.” He then turned his attention to the guards. “Boys! Help me get Huey to the hospital!” Supporting the still-erect senator, the guards began walking him toward an emergency exit, followed closely by Earl and Russell. Governor King dithered, looking like a lost child. As policemen, reporters, and common citizens began to rush into the rotunda, Bierce took one last pitying look at Weiss’s body, then retreated along the route he had come.
The next day, in a small hospital room Earl Long, Governor King, several top members of the Long organization and a frowning doctor gathered around the dying Huey Long. When he was first examined, the doctors were confident that the senator would recover from his wound; he was fully conscious, and even able to joke with his visitors. During the night, his blood pressure began a relentless fall, and the doctors had determined he had suffered severe, irreparable damage to a kidney. An operation to remove the kidney might have saved him, but by now he was so weakened, that the operation itself would probably do the job. Russell had broken down completely at the news, at which point, Earl kindly but firmly ordered him home. Earl himself had held his brother’s hand the entire night, feeling lost, so very lost, unable to imagine a future without his big brother.
Now it was morning. The hospital was surrounded by thousands of citizens, strangely silent, simply waiting. Earl Long gave little thought to the crowds. All he could think of was the big brother who had sometimes slapped him around and mocked his slow mind, but who had protected him from bullies, inside his family and out, and, as an adult, guaranteed him a place at his side as Huey began his meteoric rise to power. Occasionally, he used his free hand to wipe tears from his eyes, which from time to time shone like those of a demented lunatic.
The doctor took Huey’s other hand and sought for a pulse. After a few moments, the man sighed, and placed the senator’s hand on his motionless chest. “He is gone,” he solemnly announced. The men in the room removed their hats. Some sobbed openly. Governor King was the first to speak.
“Earl, you got to tell the folks outside.”
“I have no position,” replied Earl Long numbly. “It would come better from you.”
The portly King shook his head. “The folks out there don’t want to hear from a fat old politician like me. They want to hear from a Long. If not Huey, then the next best thing, his brother.”
Earl thought a moment, then nodded. Releasing his brother’s hand, he left the room, followed by the governor and the leaders of the Long machine. When they reached the steps to the hospital’s entrance, there was no need to gesture for silence. The crowd of thousands was as still as a cemetery at midnight. Forcing himself to speak in as loud a voice as he could manage, Earl Long spoke without preamble.
“My friends, today I have lost a brother…” A collective groan traveled through the crowd. Earl continued, “But so have you. The crusader is dead, but I give you my word, his crusade will continue. Now go back to your homes and join with your family and friends to pray for the soul of Huey Long.”
There were scattered calls of “Hang the bastards! Death to Wall Street Jews,” and other phrases that rang out through the crowd.
Raising his voice even louder, Earl Long responded “None of that, my friends! There was no conspiracy in bringing about my brother’s death. A lunatic doctor did the deed, acting by himself. The state police have already confirmed that. The murderer is dead. Now go to your homes and mourn amongst your own people.”
With scattered muttering the crowd slowly broke up. Governor King came up to Earl and patted him on the shoulder. “Well done, Earl. That crowd could have got out of hand. There could have been riots, lynchings, God knows what else. They would have only listened to you. Only the words of a Long could prevent a real disaster. Now boss, what are your orders for the rest of us?”
In amazement, Earl Long responded, “Boss? Governor, you’re the boss now that Huey’s gone.”
“Afraid not,” responded King, chuckling ruefully. “I may not be the fastest bunny in the forest, but I know I’ll never be anything but a place-holder for the Longs, and I don’t mind that. Huey built up a Long machine, and a Long must head it. Russell’s too young, so it’s gotta be you. So let me repeat: What are your orders, Mr. Long?”
Earl Long was speechless for a nearly a minute as he contemplated a future that he had never imagined would be his. Then he began to give his first orders.