The Shadowboxer Read online

G.P.G. 1A

  SINGING LADY

  SPENCER

  LOTHAR’S DRUM

  OF-AIR

  ROOM NINE

  G.P.G.

  SANCTUM

  MANDALAY

  MOORE’S

  WESTERLY

  PHILLY

  WISTFUL VISTA

  TARA

  GASOLINE ALLEY

  1ST CHAIR.

  DOC

  DOC

  DOC

  DOC

  2ND CHAIR.

  SNEEZY

  SNEEZY

  SNEEZY

  SNEEZY

  3RD CHAIR.

  SMLLY

  SMILY

  SMILY

  SMILY

  4TH CHAIR.

  GRUMPY

  GRUMPY

  GRUMPY

  GRUMPY

  5TH CHAIR.

  HAPPY

  HAPPY

  HAPPY

  HAPPY

  6TH CHAIR.

  DOPEY

  DOPEY

  DOPEY

  DOPEY

  7TH CHAIR.

  BASHFUL

  PORTLAND

  THEDA

  OLIVE OYL

  THRONE

  SNOW WHITE

  COUGHLIN

  LIVINGSTON

  DADDY

  WARBUCKS

  SPANGLER

  RETRIEVER

  MR. KEEN

  STANLEY

  DICK TRACY

  “Sir, VFW is waiting on the line,” Monitor said cautiously.

  Julian raised the receiver.

  “You didn’t answer my question, McCarthy. Just how is Clark Kent doing?”

  “MAGNIFICENTLY. HE’S BLOSSOMED INTO A FULL-FLEDGED CONSTRUCTION MANIAC. HE’S BUILDING FIVE TIMES THE FACILITIES WE NEED. HE’S ALSO DUPLICATED OUR ENTIRE SECURITY ALARM SYSTEM WITH ONE OF HIS OWN. I THINK HIS MOTHER WAS FRIGHTENED BY THE W.P.A.”

  “Go easy on the W. P. A., McCarthy. The W. P. A. is well thought of here. When the elders on the Hill allocate funds they expect them to be spent. The more you spend, the better—as long as they see tangible results. Nothing is more tangible than construction. Don’t let Clark Kent get the edge on you in this area. Get out there and do a little spending of your own. Now what other news of Clark Kent.”

  “NOT TOO MUCH. HE GOT RID OF CLAGHORN YESTERDAY AND PERSONALLY TOOK OVER EDWARD GEE AND THE SINGING LADY.”

  “Edward Gee? The Singing Lady? He can’t do that, McCarthy. That’s not his jurisdiction!”

  “HE’S IN COMMAND ISN’T HE? WHO CAN STOP HIM? AND HE’S ADDED A RATHER RUSTIC TOUCH TO THE PAPER. THE HEADLINE TO HIS FIRST ISSUE DEALS WITH THE SEX LIVES OF THE NAZIS. CLARK KENT’S PERSONAL GENIUS IS BEST REFLECTED IN THREE NEW COLUMNS: ‘COOKING TIPS UNDER AIR ATTACK,’ ‘BARGAIN GUIDE FOR WARTIME SHOPPING’ AND, LAST BUT NOT LEAST, ‘HOUSEHOLD HINTS DURING A SIEGE.’ WHO ELSE BUT CLARK KENT WOULD HAVE THOUGHT OF CROSS-BREEDING A PRIMER ON SODOMY WITH ‘POPULAR MECHANICS’?”

  “This can’t be, McCarthy. It simply cannot be.”

  “BUT IT IS.”

  “McCarthy, don’t you understand? Can’t you see? The aim of that publication is to foment unrest and insurrection among the German population. Sympathetic citizens must be instructed in sabotage techniques. You can’t do it with menu suggestions. You can’t blow the roofs off their homes and advise them on decorating bomb shelters at the same time. You must do something, McCarthy! We must get back to the original format. What about the back editions? Clark Kent hasn’t tampered with them, has he?”

  “NOT REALLY. HE’S ONLY BURNED HALF OF THEM.”

  “Why are you telling me all this, McCarthy?” VFW wailed. “Why are you ruining my day?”

  “I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE TO KNOW THAT CLARK KENT IS RAPIDLY BUT SURELY TAKING OVER.”

  “Ridiculous, McCarthy. He’s not taking over anything. He wouldn’t know where to begin. Keep your personal feelings out of this. What makes you think he’s taking over?”

  “HE HAS DEMANDED TO MEET WITH MR. KEEN.”

  “What was that? How could he know we were using Mr. Keen? How could he even know who he was?”

  “CLARK KENT HAS A WAY OF FINDING OUT EVERYTHING.”

  “Well the meeting mustn’t take place. Do you understand, McCarthy? No meeting!”

  “HOW CAN I STOP IT? CLARK KENT IS MY SUPERIOR OFFICER.”

  “You must stop it, McCarthy. I know you can. Stall him. But nothing impolite. Epps!” VFW shouted. “Carlton Epps.”

  “WHO?”

  “You know,” VFW said with relief, after the delay, “that tailor I was telling you about earlier? His name is Epps.”

  The line went dead.

  “Transfer Time, sir,” the monitor proclaimed. “White Phone now operative. White-Line Identification now in effect. Sir? Where are you going? VFW is still on the line, sir.”

  Julian stopped at the door and turned back to the monitor. “Where did that code sheet come from? I don’t remember approving anything like that.”

  “Clark Kent sent it over, sir.”

  20

  The drawing room was resplendent with antiques. A scale model of Westerly rested on the table under the tall leaded windows looking out over the restored formal gardens of the main house. Workbenches and drafting tables were lined against the adjacent wall. Blueprints were tacked to the beaverboard covering the oak paneling; Models of ships, airplanes, automobiles and buildings lay thick on every available surface. A crystal chandelier hung over the Victorian billiard table in the center of the room. A punching bag was suspended from the balcony. Barbells lay in the corner. At one end of the luxurious room stood an incongruously shiny drugstore soda fountain.

  Spangler stepped across to the opposite wall. Steel-framed photographs spread from ceiling to floor. The smiling Presidents, senators, mayors, celebrities and well-known public dignitaries were easily identifiable. The other man in each of the photographs was not.

  Spangler studied the freckled square face with wide nose, low bushy eyebrows and eternal grin. He estimated the man to be well over six feet. The thick short neck rising from the massive shoulders indicated some type of athletic conditioning.

  “Is that our boy, Julie? That the Retriever you got there with you?”

  Spangler looked up as the officer descended the staircase. His hair was crew-cut and was blonder than it had seemed in the photographs. The freckles were hardly visible under the ruddy complexion. His age was deceptive. At first glance Spangler put it between thirty-five and forty. As the colonel strode toward him he guessed it might be fifty.

  “Kittermaster at your service, sir—and mighty proud to make your acquaintance.”

  “I don’t like that name,” Spangler said, ignoring the outstretched hand.

  “Which one, son? Lamar, Buford or Kittermaster?” the colonel asked with a grin. “I hope it’s the first or the second. You see, I’ve grown kinda fond of Kittermaster. Now, Lamar’s a whole different tale. Not that Buford’s much of a tickler, either. Nope, I gotta admit that the only advantage to being called Lamar Buford is that you start learning the godly art of self-defense at a very tender age.”

  “I don’t like being called Retriever.”

  “The hell you say. And after all the trouble Julie here went through picking it. Friend, if you don’t like it, we’ll just have to change it. Won’t we, Julie old buddy?”

  Julian smiled.

  “Why did you send Jean-Claude into Germany?” Spangler demanded.

  “Hold on. I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking questions.”

  “Why was he sent on field assignment?” Spangler persisted.

  “You know something, friend, I’d like to clear that one up myself. Yes sir, that one and maybe a few more, but I feel crowded. Hey, Julie, you planning to haul ass and get some of that work of yours done, or do you hold it in mind to hang around and snoop?”

  “Anything you have to say to me,” Spangler said, “you can say in front of him.”

 
“That a fact? That’s deeply touching.”

  “Why did you order Jean-Claude into Germany?”

  “Hear that, Julie?” Kittermaster asked. “Hear how the fellah’s talkin’? Tell him, Julie friend! Tell him all about it.”

  “Certainly, Colonel. You sent Jean-Claude to Germany.”

  “Mr. Whoever-you-are,” Kittermaster said, throwing an arm around Spangler, “let me tell you something. I wasn’t supposed to know who you were, let alone know anything about this Jean-Claude. Why, it’s taken me two whole days of threats to get to see you. Every time I asked, good old Julie here claimed he never heard of you. Now, if he never heard of you, I assume he wanted me to believe you don’t exist. And if you don’t exist, how can your friend Jean-Claude exist? And if Jean-Claude doesn’t exist—exist for me, that is—how could I have sent him anywhere?”

  Spangler broke the grip and moved away.

  “Colonel Kittermaster,” Julian asked quietly, “then how do you know they do exist? How do you know about Spangler and Jean-Claude?”

  “Spangler? So that’s his name.” Kittermaster grinned. “Mighty glad to meet you, Mr. Spangler.”

  “I repeat, Colonel Kittermaster, if you had no knowledge of either of them, how do you know about them now?”

  “I got my ways, Julie. Like you got your ways, I got my ways.”

  “And you didn’t send Jean-Claude in?”

  “You know I didn’t, Julie.”

  “Colonel, with the exception of Spangler here, who is a contracted agent, every other person in my department is listed and subject to your approval. Jean-Claude was listed—and approved.”

  “Jean-Claude was listed in code, Julie. All your people are listed in code.”

  “But you knew who he was, you just admitted that.” Julian took a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Colonel Kittermaster, these are Jean-Claude’s orders—with your name at the bottom.”

  Kittermaster took the sheet and examined it. “Julie boy, you are a marvel! There’s no denying that’s my signature. How did you manage it, Julie? No, let me guess. You slipped it in with a lot of routine papers.”

  “Colonel, remember our so-called jurisdictional agreement on orders. You sign administration orders for my department, but I handle operational orders.”

  “That’s the agreement, Julie boy.”

  “Administration orders are yellow, Colonel; operational, green. You’re holding a green sheet.”

  “Julie, I sign so many orders I couldn’t tell one from the other. I got mountains of orders. You just put them there, and I sign them because I trust you—more or less.”

  “And who brings you the orders from my department?”

  “You, Julie, only you.”

  “Colonel Kittermaster, not only is your signature on a green order, but I couldn’t have brought it to you. I wasn’t even here at the time. If you’ll look at the date you yourself stamped on it, you’ll see that it was while I was away on the boat.”

  Kittermaster faltered, then moved behind the soda fountain. “Anyone for a shake? How does a big, thick shake grab you? No? Then what do you say to a black cow?”

  “Why did you send him in?” Spangler demanded.

  “I didn’t, friend, I swear I didn’t. I had no knowledge of it until a few days ago. I can’t deny that’s my signature, but I don’t know how it got there. I’ll figure it out in time. Everything Julie does you can figure out in time. But one thing’s goddam obvious to me—and it should be to you—Julie’s gone to a lot of trouble to rig this. And my question is, why? What’s behind it? That’s why I wanted to talk to you alone.”

  “Shall we go, Erik?” Julian asked.

  “Stay, Mr. Spangler. Hear me out. A tug of war is going on over you—and I think you should know about it.”

  “Ready, Erik?”

  “Let’s hear what he has to say,” Spangler replied.

  “Now, I got no proof to lots of this,” Kittermaster began, “so you’ll have to bear with me a minute. But, as I see it, Julie used Jean-Claude to hoodwink you into coming here to Westerly.”

  “For what conceivable reason?” Julian asked.

  “Julie was out on a boat all right—he was over in France meeting with a Kraut named von Schleiben. He and von Schleiben cooked something up. Something dealing with you, because right after the meeting Julie tried to contact you and call off the Tolan escape. But I intercepted the message. It wasn’t relayed on to you.”

  “You did what?” Julian gasped.

  “That’s right, Julie, the message came to me. You were away, remember. Anyway, Mr. Spangler, Julie got awfully upset when you took out Hilka Tolan. The question is, why? You see, Julie’s in kind of a bind—he’s got to locate another man, another prisoner, awful fast. I got a hunch von Schleiben offered him just that in return for you. But now it’s too late. The search is on, but if it falls through, then what? And it looks as if it has fallen through. So, as I see it, Julie’s holding you here until he can arrange to turn you over to von Schleiben.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Erik,” Julian said nervously. “He’s trying to distort everything. He’s trying to get you to work directly for him.”

  “Mr. Spangler,” Kittermaster said, scooping up a ball of ice cream and dropping it into a tumbler, “I don’t want you to think that Julie and I ain’t the closest of friends. When he’s fifty per cent right, he’s fifty per cent right. I do want you to come over and work for me. What about it?”

  “I don’t work for Americans,” Spangler said.

  “But you worked for Julie.”

  “I didn’t know whom he represented until I arrived here.”

  “What have you got against Americans?”

  “The same thing I have against the British and the French.”

  “You ain’t a Commie, are you, boy?”

  “Not even that.”

  “Wait a minute, wait just one minute. Are you a Nazi sympathizer?”

  “They’re no better or worse than anyone else.”

  “What kinda talk is that?”

  “You all wanted this war, you all got this war. It could have been stopped if anyone cared, but no one did. So go fight it—but not with my help.”

  “Oh no. You don’t pull that one on me! If you’re so damned above it all, how come you keep returning to Germany? Why do you keep taking out prisoners?”

  “Whatever the reason, it has nothing to do with governments and slogans. And, in any case, I’m breaking the habit.”

  “Look, boy, you want to get on a high horse, be my guest. I ain’t peddling patriotism or medals. You need me and I can sure as hell use you. Now what do you say?”

  “Not interested.”

  “Not interested in Jean-Claude? Not interested in the fact that Julie can finger you for the Nazis? Julie isn’t stupid enough to think he can hold you prisoner forever. He brought you here to keep an eye on you. Von Schleiben has no idea where you are or what you look like. Julie can supply that information and a photograph too—and he will. Even if you escape the Germans here, you’ll still have von Schleiben on your trail the rest of your life.

  “There’s no one who can stop Julie but me. Still not interested? Uh-uh. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re Man of the Hour here. Key man. The most important single commodity going at present. You bounce one way or another—to Julie or to me. You’re too valuable to too many people for too many reasons not to get involved.”

  “What other reasons?”

  “Come take a look for yourself,” Kittermaster said, starting across the room.”

  “Don’t go, Erick!” Julian shouted. “Just by knowing, you’ll be part of it. He’ll have you locked in for good!”

  “He’s already locked in,” Kittermaster said, holding open the elevator door, “but at least I’m offering to show him why. I’m allowing him to see what’s behind all this. After that he can make up his own mind. Coming, friend?”

  With a sudden shrug of interest, Spangler stepped into the elevator. The
door closed in Julian’s face.

  21

  The card was tacked to the front of St. Olaf’s Church in Sonderborg, Sweden, among the other obituaries, and read:

  BLEGVARD, Havdaen—devoted husband to Gunella, beloved father of Arn, Gustav, Lars, Nora and Britt. Born January 1, 1881, Ustak, Poland. Died February 14, 1944. Body arriving on noon train. Services at home, 3 P.M. unless otherwise notified.

  The short-wave message received from Norway five hours later and rushed to Crypto was:

  Gunella, Arn, Lars, Gustav, Nora, Britt—February fourteen, three P.M.—one add one—rail.

  The report relayed to Dark Channels within fifteen minutes stated:

  Tolan and five unidentified prisoners arrived Ositz by train, 3 P.M. February 14.

  22

  The door in the construction wall on the first floor of the main house opened and four sentries stood back. Spangler followed Kittermaster through, up the staircase to the left, past more lines of sentries and into the most closely guarded chamber in Westerly.

  Spangler stepped out from under the gallery and looked around. He was standing in a precise replica of the United States Senate. Desk, chair, ceiling, window, molding, whatever the detail, was an exact copy of the prototype on Capitol Hill. There were, however, two immediately noticeable additions to the original. A blue-satindraped platform had been erected just below the speaker’s rostrum. On it rested a large mahogany table flanked by three blueupholstered chairs on one side and four on the other. At the head of the table stood a throne covered in gold and blue.

  The second addition was more prominent. A fifteen-by-twenty-five-foot silk flag was stretched high on the wall behind the Vice-President’s podium. The banner bore a coat of arms on a field of blue and gold stripes. The crest contained a lion’s body surmounted by two silver eagles’ heads, facing in opposite directions, their eyes blazing red. An inscription below the crest read “GERMAN PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT.”

  Spangler broke into laughter. “Whose brainchild was this?”

  “Julie’s.”

  “And you think you can get away with it?”