The Spycatcher Caper Read online

  The gumshoe looked around the room to see whose elbows were bent and whose ears he could bend. The years had taken their toll of both moderate drinkers and confirmed lushes. Some had moved on to lusher pastures, so to speak. A few had developed delirium tremens and were residing in Bellevue Hospital or a noted facility on Long Island. The saddest loss of all was that of “Light Fingers” Louie,” the full-time snitch and part-time safe cracker who had fled conviction and the city for Los Angeles, only to meet a worse ending, as DeWitt, who was there in the City of Angels, knew.

  But some veteran guzzlers remained. DeWitt waved to “Two Fingers” Tony Mangiamangia, who had served as an excellent carver at Guido's Kosher Deli until he lopped off a pair of digits on his slicing hand. And there was poor “Southpaw Sammy” Stickitt yelling for him to come over and join him and his friends. Sammy probably had friends, but not at the Elbow, where now and customarily he sat drinking alone. Sammy's trouble was that he couldn't stop regaling the bar's patrons with sad stories of how he had been unrightfully banned from baseball. Gus told people that Sammy had given new meaning to the saying, “crying in one's beer.”

  DeWitt waved back to Sammy but kept his distance. He also was determined, for other reasons, to keep his distance from “Gardenia Gertie,” who was staggering his way.

  “Well how the hell is my favorite private dick? I haven't seen you for at least a week. Where have you been keeping yourself, and more to the point, wouldn't you like to keep yourself with me?” Gertie leered at him, her bright red lipstick painted on her mouth as if by a blind person. “We could go back to your place. I've never seen it, you know. We could go back to my place, of course, but come to think of it, I don't know if those two gents have put on their clothes and left yet.”

  “Another time, Gertie. I'm working on a case,” he lied. Truth was he hadn't been working on a case for some time, but he was in enough trouble already without taking a chance on more at the hands of Gardenia Gertie, more commonly known to the male frequenters of The Elbow as “Gonorrhea Gertie.”

  As he was leaving, Dick heard Southpaw Sammy telling no one in particular that he could have gone to the major leagues if it hadn't been for that lousy baseball commissioner. Gus followed by asking DeWitt when he was going to pay his tab. Sad and sour notes to leave on.

  DeWitt rose early the next morning, fixed breakfast, and mulled over going to church. Soldiers were praying in foxholes, he figured, and maybe he should offer up a few of his own supplications in hope that he would never find himself in a foxhole or anywhere near a war zone. The Man upstairs might listen to him, but then He might think that he was in church only to cadge a favor. What to do, what to do?

  What I need, the gumshoe told himself, were laughs, and what better place to find them than in the movies? Dick went to the dilapidated garbage can in his dilapidated kitchen and pulled out an oil-soaked, five-day-old newspaper that he had used for wrapping spoilt sardines. He was in luck: the movie section remained in readable condition, though barely. He was in more luck when he saw that a midtown movie house was featuring “Ghosts on the Loose,” with the East Side Kids. The film would provide a special treat, he figured, since various people had told him that he reminded them of Huntz Hall, one of the Kids. (Others had likened him to Stan Laurel.)

  DeWitt grabbed his aged green fedora, walked uptown, plunked down his quarter at the ticket booth, bought some crunchy candy, grabbed a seat in the middle of the half-filled theater, and settled down for some needed diversion. He could have, and would have, had he had a choice, dispensed with the Pathé news that preceded the featured attraction. Graphic depictions of the war in the Pacific depressed him in thinking that one day, and a not too distant one at that, his kisser might appear in such footage. The news ended and “Action in the North Atlantic” lit up the screen. “Action in the North Atlantic”? Someone's made a big mistake, he thought. Tripping over a couple sitting on the aisle seats and spilling their popcorn, he caught up with an usherette and demanded an explanation. The latter asked him when was the last time he read the newspaper, because features in their theater changed every Friday. DeWitt was angry. Then he became angrier when the manager refused to refund his ticket. “I'll never come to your flea-ridden dump you call a movie house again,” he promised. The manager retorted that he, DeWitt, should be out there doing something for his country instead of relaxing in a movie house.

  The episode further depressed the gumshoe, as did the inordinate amount of booze that he swigged down during the remainder of the day.

  Monday couldn't come soon enough for Dick, despite a hangover that felt larger than all the exhibits combined in the New York World's Fair of 1939. Polish Phil, he reckoned, would have returned home by early evening at the latest, so promptly at six he removed the ice bag from his forehead and made the call.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi, Phil, it's your old buddy, Dick DeWitt. How's the trip?”

  “Hey, Dickie, long time no see. Trip wasn't bad. What's up with you? How did you make out with the draft board?”

  DeWitt explained the situation and asked his friend what he would do if faced with this dilemma. He could hear the retired cop breathing deeply and wondered what was running through his mind.

  “You know, Dickie, if I were you—and I give thanks on bended knees that I'm not—I'd probably run for the hills. Let's face it: you don't have much of a life now, but at least you got a life, which you might not have if you see any action. Yeah, I'd say get a new identity and get your ass as far away as you can. But–and maybe I shouldn't say this but I'm going to–I had a nice talk with my cousin Louise, the one who's serving time on a manslaughter rap for having knocked off her abusive bastard husband and the one you've had the hots for even before then. Well, I gave Louise the long and short of your situation, and she said that she liked you a lot and hoped to see you when she gets out of the slammer, but that she could never have anything to do with a draft dodger. Was I wrong to tell you this?”

  “No, Phil, you weren't wrong. You just made everything crystal clear: I am a dead man either way.

  Chapter 2

  DeWitt figured that basic training would not be as pleasant as a night on the town with Rita Hayworth or even Zasu Pitts. But in his worst nightmares he could not have conceived the misery it would inflict upon him.

  It began when he had trouble getting off the bus that had brought him and other recruits to the training base in New Jersey. His suitcase, stuffed with several bottles of booze in addition to lesser necessities, seemed too heavy for his rarely exercised one-hundred-and-sixty-pound frame. He trudged along, falling behind the other recruits from the bus.

  “Hey, Grandpa, you need some help?” barked a soldier, arms akimbo and with a look that would install fear in all but the most intrepid or foolish.

  “Sure could, buddy. If you'll just carry this until I catch my breath, I'd be much obliged.”

  The soldier, his three stripes promising little assistance, snarled, “Get your hairy ass and fucking suitcase into the processing center pronto. And if you need some help, I'll be mighty pleased to kick that ass and shove your grip where no sun shines. Now get moving, mister!”

  By the time DeWitt received a couple of painful shots in his arm and rear end, caught his fatigues and bed clothing as they were tossed at him, made his bed, and ate a meal that was edible but over too soon, he retired to bed, exhausted and unhappy. He thought of swigging a few gulps from his precious cache of liquids, but decided otherwise, not knowing if the Army had any prohibitions for inductees.

  The next morning was still night as far as he was concerned. “Get your asses out of bed, hit the john, get cleaned and dressed, make your comfy beds, haul your sorry selves over to the mess hall, and then get back here on the double. Then,” Sergeant Growell paused, “then we're going to have ourselves some fun.”

  DeWitt looked at the clock. The last time he had got up this early had been when he left Kathleen Laughlin's bed and apartment before her husban
d returned from his night job on the waterfront. He and his roughly forty recruit roommates did what the sergeant had ordered. Very few seemed pleased with their experience thus far. One of their number asked DeWitt, who was seemingly older than all the other trainees, how they caught him. “By surprise, fellow, by surprise.”

  Bed check time. Growell strolled down the aisles, chewing out those who had failed to make up their beds to his satisfaction and only a tad less so to those who had. DeWitt presented a special case. “Do you call this a neatly made up bed, mister?” he queried a man who had made up very few beds in his life. “Now you see this her quarter? When I toss it in the air and it comes down and hits the blanket, there should be no bounce. That is, if you've done it properly.”

  The sergeant and peacetime gumshoe looked at the quarter. “Thanks, Serge, I appreciate your advice and also the quarter. With my business being kind of slow these days, I can use all the help that's coming my way.”

  While the other recruits laughed or stifled their laughs, the sergeant told the gumshoe to give him ten. DeWitt told him that he did not have a dime on him but would find one. This was before his lights went out, compliments of a solid right to the side of his head from an unamused noncommissioned officer of the United States Army.

  And this was just the beginning of recruit Dick DeWitt's problems. The long daily marches and runs blistered his feet, the heavy load that he toted on these outings pained his sagging back and shoulders. Before the war he had rarely carried anything heavier than hootch and hangovers. The day on the firing range in which he tripped and nearly shot the rifle instructor found him in much deeper trouble. Only Sergeant Growell's intervention saved him from a stay in the stir. It was not that the NCO had become soft on DeWitt. He merely wanted him nearby for more punishing chores. DeWitt's morale reached its low point when the sergeant forced him to clean the latrine with a pocket-sized toothbrush. And when the demoralized former private detective finished, the sadistic maker of mollusks into men forced him to do it again. This seemed all the harder for one who didn't make it a strict habit of brushing his set of thirty-twos daily in peacetime.

  By the end of his second week on the base DeWitt was ready to call it quits. Looking back on his phone call with Polish Phil, he realized that he had made the wrong choice: if he served Uncle Sam he might one day win Louise's heart, but only maybe; on the other hand, if he had taken the Polack's advice and skipped town, he would now be happier and ultimately safer. Could have, should have, didn't.

  Then one day when the recruits had returned to their barracks after a particularly grueling march, Sergeant Growell stuck his pocked face into the door. “Any of you cunts seen the army's biggest jerk?” Several heads swiveled toward DeWitt. “Oh yeah,” Growell said, “I see America's number one threat to winning this war. Haul ass over here, Mr. Dimwit, I got a message for you.”

  DeWitt had no idea what his tormentor had in store for him but decided that it was more trouble.

  “For some reason, General Shrapnell wants your company, probably for a nice cup of tea and some crumpets. So get the hell over to headquarters immediately. And if you miss chow,” he smiled “there's always tomorrow.”

  Headquarters was a ten-minute walk away, but DeWitt, sore feet and all, hightailed it. Punctuality availed nothing in this case, and he was forced to wait half an hour before an aide said that the general would see him.

  “At ease,” the base commander ordered. “Well, soldier, reports on you show that you leave a lot—no, make that more than a lot—to be desired.” He lit a Lucky Strike. “Nevertheless,” he took a long drag, “nevertheless, someone for some damn fool reason wants you to undertake vital work for the country. Tell me, how are you related to Lieutenant General John L. DeWitt, the head of the Army's Western Defense Command?”

  “I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know if I'm related to a General DeWitt.” He looked thoughtful. “I did have a great uncle Jasper who was given the heave-ho from the Army for having attempted to desert, but a 'John L. DeWitt' I've never heard of. I have heard of a General Nuisance, of course.”

  General Shrapnell frowned. “Listen, soldier, get smart with me and you'll rot in the brig despite this call for your assistance. It must be a snafu. Some feeble-minded clerk saw your name and passed it on to Western Command. I doubt if Lieutenant General John L. DeWitt, busy as he is, has any knowledge of the matter. Someone made an assumption that proved incorrect. But I see here that you were a private detective before Pearl Harbor. Maybe that had something to do with it. I don't know and, frankly, at this point I don't care. It's my responsibility to see that our boys are fully prepared to fight, and that's that.”

  The general sifted through a few papers on his cluttered desk before he found DeWitt's orders. “According to this, soldier, you'll go by train the day after tomorrow to Los Angeles and report to… well, you can read it for yourself.”

  DeWitt could barely contain himself. “Yes, sir, I'm pleased to do anything to help my country in this time of need.” He saluted. Before wheeling around to leave, he asked if he should know more about General DeWitt.

  Don't you read the papers, private?” General DeWitt is in charge of relocating Japanese from the West Coast, where they could be acting as a fifth column to help their brethren in their war against us. He testified before congress that 'a Jap's a Jap' whether he or she was born here or in that heathen land across the Pacific. I remember his words that 'we must worry about the Japanese until he is wiped off the map.' A lot of people in California hated the Japs long before the war, but hate and fear shot up after the attack on Pearl. All the state's big shot politicians sided with General DeWitt, especially after an enemy submarine fired shells into Santa Barbara earlier this year, followed by a panicked response to a false report of Jap planes flying over Los Angeles. Shortly after Pearl, the U.S. government rounded up and held a number of noncitizen Japanese (Issei). Then in February the war department received a presidential order to remove any suspicious Issei from our military areas. Finally, the president ordered the relocation of the Issei, their American-born offspring (Nisei), and alien Japanese from the West Coast to further inland. It's estimated that by summer it will be a done deal: more than 400,000 of them will be living in camps fenced in with barbed wire and guarded by soldiers.

  “My guess, soldier, is that this relocation relates to what you'll be doing. Now one more thing that I nearly forgot: your orders are marked 'top secret.' Do I need to remind you to keep this secret at all costs? And soldier, good luck.”

  After dismissing DeWitt, Shrapnell looked worried. “I hope I'm not making a mistake, Sam,” he said to his aide. “I need to get on the good side of the higher ups—and that might include General John A. DeWitt– if I'm going to get a second general's star before I retire. I know that the vast majority of Japanese and Japanese Americans on the West Coast are good, loyal Americans, and that this Lieutenant General DeWitt has a bug up his ass about them. But I'm sending this idiot Dick DeWitt, who may be a relative, to his area of the war because it might be my last chance for promotion. On the other hand, I have a hunch that we'd win this goddamn war a hell of a lot sooner if Private DeWitt were fighting on the other side.”

  DeWitt—the private dick, that is—left the base commander's office whistling a Cole Porter tune and doing some dance steps that would have left Fred Astaire without envy. Am I glad to give up New Jersey and that fucking Sergeant Growell for sunny California? You bet!

  On the appointed day and time, orders in hand, Private Dick DeWitt was en route to the City of Angels, but not before bidding farewell to Sergeant Growell and giving the startled NCO a big hug followed by a middle finger salute.

  Chapter 3

  Union Station. DeWitt's cross-country trip had been without significant incidents, and now, in early April 1942, he was back in the land of sun and sometimes fun. Those months he had spent in Los Angeles a few years ago had promised opportunities for a gumshoe whose business in New York had since become drier than t
he Sahara. Hollywood, especially, had provided allures, though the murder case he had become involved with didn't count as one of them. Now, no longer a civilian, he was here to fulfill his duty, whatever that would entail.

  The Checker Cab DeWitt hailed outside Union Station took him to his new abode, as per orders, a small bungalow located on Miramar in downtown Los Angeles. It was not near Union Station, and the fare was not cheap. DeWitt considered giving the cabbie a tip and then thought better of it. “I'd give you something more than the fare, but I'm a G.I. and there's a war on,” he explained. Unmoved, the cabbie told him to have a fine time fighting the Japs and don't hurry back. In fact, he needn't come back at all.

  The bungalow pleased DeWitt, its decent sized living room, bedroom, and adequate kitchen, all freshly painted, presented an unexpected contrast to the small, messy apartment he called home back east and gave promise that his stint in the Army might provide an upside. Tossing his suitcase on the bed, he searched the ice box and shelves for food and drink. No luck. From the cab he had noticed a small grocery store two blocks away that now became his destination. A half hour later he returned to the bungalow, laden with some food and a lot of booze. Too tired from the train trip and the emotional wear and tear of his call to duty, he fixed himself a good helping of Jack Daniel's and a light but favorite meal consisting of two sandwiches that blended sardines with peanut butter and a dish of vanilla ice cream topped by a dill pickle. Afterwards he treated himself to more booze and a perusal of a daily newspaper that he had picked up along the way to the grocery store. The war news remained grim, but not for long: Dick DeWitt was ready to do his job and help save the nation.

  After a good night's sleep the gumshoe was ready to report for duty. Not wishing to spring for another cab fare, he asked at the newsstand for directions. A friendly proprietor shook his head and told him that bus service was limited in the city, but there was one fairly nearby that would drop him off near City Hall and the Hall of Justice, both of which were near Union Station. Dewitt waited a half hour for the bus, stubbornly refusing to hail a cab to ensure that he would arrive at his destination at the appointed hour.