"Yes, sir. He tried to get his boss, Fredericks, to dispose of me, at least temporarily. I'm assuming the inspiration came from Martell. He's handicapped to some extent by the fact that he has to maintain his cover as an obedient goon. Fredericks would start asking pointed questions if he caught his hired hand operating independently." After a moment, I said, "Question, sir."
"Yes?"
"We seem to be assuming that Martell's on some mysterious mission in this country, and has been on it for seven years or more. Has anybody considered the possibility that he might be on the up-and-up, in a crooked sort of way?"
"What do you mean, Eric?"
"Well, he could have chased after just one woman too many. Suppose he just got himself kicked off the team. He had to earn a living somehow, poor fellow, so he came over here and got a job carrying a gun for an American racketeer, since that was the kind of work he knew best. When Rizzi went to jail, he simply scouted the employment market and hooked up with the man paying top wages, who happened to be Fredericks."
"On this basis, how do you explain what happened to Paul?"
"Easily, sir. Naturally Martell doesn't want guys like Paul and me snooping around-not because he's conducting some secret operation for the other side, but simply because we threaten his new identity as Jack Fenn. Just like a crook who's gone straight for years wouldn't want a detective with a long memory threatening his newfound respectability."
"Do you believe this, Eric?"
"I don't believe or disbelieve. I just think it's a possibility that ought to be considered."
"It has been," Mac said, "and dismissed from consideration."
"Why?"
"For one thing, the people he worked for, as you must know, have a very permanent way of discharging employees who prove unsatisfactory. Very few of them turn up in the labor market afterwards. But you are right to a certain extent. We've learned that Martell did get himself into disgrace again, presumably some time between fifty-one, when we know he was working for them in Berlin, and fifty-three, when he first came into contact with our police under the name of Fenn."
"How did you learn this, sir?"
"With Martell, how would we learn it except from one of his castoff women. Fortunately, she had a grudge, and we worked on it and got what she knows. Although he's not ordinarily a heavy drinker, he apparently did talk in his cups on a couple of occasions. He felt somebody had given him a raw deal, she said. 'Just one little slip and they send you to Siberia!' was the way he put it
– America being Siberia, in his estimation. He tried to impress her with what a big man he'd been somewhere else, and what a come-down it was for him to be running errands for a punk like Rizzi."
I said, when he paused, "That still doesn't prove-"
"There's more," Mac said. "The girl was scared at hearing him talk that way about a big shot like Rizzi, and showed it. Martell laughed at her and said something about how Rizzi might think he, Martell, Fenn as she knew him, was running Rizzi's errands, but actually it was the other way around… When he sobered up, he beat her up and almost killed her. He said he would kill her if she repeated anything he'd said."
"Martell being what he is, I have no doubt he meant it."
"Neither had she," Mac said. "But the two thousand odd miles between New York and Reno apparently made her feel safe enough, after he'd gone west to join Fredericks recently, to start brooding over her wrongs in various bars, more or less aloud, and somebody picked it up and passed it to us."
I said, "Well, that does put a different light on it. So Martell felt he was using Rizzi in some way. That's interesting."
"Very." After a moment, Mac went on: "I've studied the interrogation tapes carefully, Eric. Reading between the lines, so to speak-there's more that I won't bother to quote-I've come to the conclusion that Mr. Martell's 'one little slip,' actually his third on record, of course, came very close to getting him liquidated. He was saved
– I'm guessing now-because somebody needed a man who could do a good job of impersonating a tough American gangster. Just an ordinary intelligence agent wouldn't do. The man had to be tough enough, and skilled enough with weapons, to maneuver himself into the position of being the trusted lieutenant of a big-shot like Rizzi. So Martell was reprieved, but he was reprimanded, demoted, and sent over here to ponder his sins and spend seven years building a reputation and a police record-for what?"
"Yes," I said. "It's a good question. And from Rizzi, he moves to Fredericks. What's the common denominator, sir, if there is one?"
"There is one," Mac said.
"Yes," I said. "Dope."
"Precisely."
I hesitated, and said, "A friend of mine had an experience on the Mexican border that may fit in with all this. Returning to her native land, she had her car searched very thoroughly, which had never happened before. She has the theory that it was because she happens to be Sally Fredericks' daughter."
Mac's voice was dry. "You have a valuable knack of making interesting and useful friends, Eric."
I ignored the interruption. 'She also has the theory that her male parent might be trying to get something across the border, and that she was suspected of carrying it for him. Confirm or deny, sir."
"Your friend is a fast girl with a theory. Confirm." Mac was silent briefly, then he asked, "What do you know about heroin, Eric?"
"That it's habit-forming, sir. What's going on? Are they sending guys like Martell to turn us into a nation of hop-heads so they can take us over easier? Like the British are supposed to have encouraged the opium trade in the last century to make the Chinese more tractable?"
"It's a possibility," Mac said. "But it does seem a little far-fetched."
"To go back to my friend's experience," I said. "Could Fredericks perhaps be having difficulties getting the stuff across the border these days?"
"He could."
"Serious difficulties, like having his lines of communications disrupted by crude individuals wearing badges? Serious enough that somebody'd think he was desperate enough to try using his own daughter as a courier?"
"Something like that."
"A large shipment, perhaps?"
"Quite large. It was traced from Italy to Mexico and the border was warned that it was moving north. Twice it was almost seized when The Man, as he is known, tried to bring it in through his normal channels. Various small fish were caught, but the bait was not taken with them. Rumors are that The Man made a serious error at this point."
"Such as?"
"Such as enlisting local help, which proved unreliable and greedy. You can't call it an actual hijacking, since the gentlemen below the border are quite amenable to reason, as long as it's a large enough reason in American dollars. The Man, to date, has refused to pay, although there's evidence that his supplies are getting low and his distributors are beginning to complain. Instead he sent a trusted expert south to deal with the problem, but the individual apparently wasn't quite expert enough, and disappeared. I have most of this information from another agency, which is giving us full cooperation."
"How full?" I asked. "If I fall over a guy in the dark, can I kick him hard, or is he apt to be one of Mr. Anslinger's nice young men?"
"We have a clear field," Mac said. "Up to a point. Understandably, they don't want the shipment to get loose in the country. Understandably, too, they would like very much to get something concrete and legal on Mr. Salvatore Frederici, alias Fredericks. But I have persuaded them, by lying shamefully, that we know exactly what we're doing, and that our mission must have priority, in the national interest. I'd hate to have to eat my words, Eric."