Amerikan Eagle

“A hobo walking the tracks found it. He also thought he saw someone in the area who might be of interest, but I haven’t been able to recontact him.”

LaCouture rattled off another string of German and then said, “Go on.”

Sam looked at the blank, smooth face of the German and thought, Sure, an accountant, a bank accountant who could toss a family from their home for one late mortgage payment without blinking an eye.

He said, “That’s about it. No other witnesses, not much information. I think the body—”

LaCouture interrupted. “I’m sure you were quite thorough. But from this moment forward, this matter is now under the jurisdiction of the FBI. All right, Detective?”

“Inspector,” Sam corrected dryly. “My position within the department is inspector, not detective.”

“My apologies, Inspector.” The FBI guy smilied without a trace of remorse. “We’ll be talking to your local medical examiner later today, and we want a copy of your report.”

“You’ll get what you want,” Sam said, “but I’d like to know why you’re so interested in this body. And how did you find out about it?”

“You sent a telex to the state police,” LaCouture said. “We get copies of all those kinds of telexes. The Germans had been looking for this particular character for reasons they’ve kept to themselves.”

“So you can’t say who he is and why he was here illegally?”

“Even if I could, I won’t, because it’s now none of your business,” LaCouture said. “Because we believe the body is that of a German illegal, it’s a diplomatic matter, and because the investigating arm of the German government is the Gestapo, it’s a Gestapo matter. And because we don’t like the Gestapo traipsing across our fair land without an escort, it’s also an FBI matter. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite clear, but I still want to know—”

LaCouture folded his large hands, and Sam saw the man’s nails gleamed with polish. “You seem to be a curious man. So am I. And I’m curious how a patrol sergeant like you became a police inspector while your older brother is serving a six-year sentence in a labor camp. A labor camp in New York, correct? The one near Fort Drum? The Iroquois camp?”

The German looked like he was enjoying seeing the two Americans sparring. Sam felt his mouth go dry. So Tony’s name was going to come up after all. “Yes,” Sam said. “My brother is serving a six-year sentence. For organizing a union. Used to be a time when that wasn’t illegal.”

“There was a time when booze was legal, became illegal, and then became legal again. Who the hell can keep track nowadays?” LaCouture chuckled.

Sam looked at the German and said, “You’ll get my report. I’ll have Mrs. Walton type up a copy, should be ready in under an hour. But I still want to know something.”

“I don’t care what you want to know, I don’t have anything more to say to you.”

“The question’s not for you,” Sam said. “It’s for the Gestapo, if that’s all right.”

LaCouture glanced at Groebke. Then he said, “Go ahead, Inspector. But make it snappy.”

Sam said, “This man was half starved. And there were numbers tattooed on his wrist. The numerals nine-one-one-two-eight-three. Can he explain that?”

LaCouture spoke a sentence or two to the German, who nodded in comprehension. Groebke said something slow and definite, and LaCouture told Sam, “He said he doesn’t know the man’s eating habits. As to the tattoo, perhaps someday you will be in Berlin, at Gestapo headquarters at Eight Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, and then he may tell you. But not here, and not now.”

“Not much of an answer,” Sam remarked.

LaCouture motioned to the German, stood up, and grabbed his hat. “Only one you’re going to get today. Now, this has been cheerful and all that, but you mind not wasting our fucking time any longer?”

Sam could feel his face burning. “No. I don’t mind.”

The German made a short bow. “Herr Inspector, danke. Thank you. Goodbye.”

“Yeah. So long.”

* * *

After they left, Marshal Hanson came right in and reclaimed his seat with a look of distaste that somebody else could have occupied his place of honor and polluted his office with cigarette smoke. He folded his hands and said, “Well?”

“The FBI guy’s name is LaCouture. His buddy there is from the Gestapo. Groebke. They say the body from the other night was a German illegal.”

“So they’ve taken the case from you. Now a federal matter. Good.”

“Good?” Sam asked. “What’s good about it? They waltzed right in here and took my case away… a homicide! You know how the FBI operates. We’re never going to hear anything more about it.”