If the Dead Rise Not

  Noreen wasn’t listening to most of that. She retuned her wavelength the moment I said “hospital.” She said, “There’s one in Cotorro. I’ll take him there myself.”

  “Hop in and I’ll drive you.”

  “No, you’ve done enough. Was it very difficult? Getting him out of police custody.”

  “A little more difficult than putting a request in the suggestion box. And it was the army that had him, not the police.”

  “Look, why don’t you wait in the house? Make yourself at home. Fix yourself a drink. Ask Ramón to make you something to eat if you want. I won’t be long.”

  “I really ought to be running along. After the events of this morning, I feel a pressing need to renew all my insurance policies.”

  “Bernie, please. I want to thank you properly. And speak to you about something.”

  “All right. I can put up with that.”

  I watched her drive him away and then went inside and flirted with the drinks trolley, but I was in no mood to play hard-to-get with Hemingway’s bourbon, and swallowed a glass of Old Forester in less time than it took to pour. With another large one waiting in my hand, I took a tour of the house and tried to ignore the obvious comparison between my own situation and that of a trophy on Hemingway’s wall. I’d been bagged by Lieutenant Quevedo just as surely as if I’d been shot with an express rifle. And Germany now looked about as far away to me as the snows of Kilimanjaro or the green hills of Africa.

  One of the rooms was full of packing cases and suitcases, and for one stomach-churning moment I thought she might be leaving Cuba until I realized that Noreen was probably getting ready to move into her new house in Marianao.

  After a while, and another drink, I walked outside and climbed the four-story tower. It wasn’t difficult. A half-covered staircase on the outside went right up to the top. There was a bath on the first floor and some cats playing cards on the second. The third floor was where all the rifles were kept, in locked glass cabinets, and the way I was feeling it was probably just as well I hadn’t brought any keys. The uppermost story was furnished with a small desk and a large library full of military books. I stayed there for a long while. I didn’t much care for Hemingway’s taste in literature, but there was no arguing with the view. Max Reles would have liked it a lot. From each of the windows the view was all you could see. For miles around. Right up until the moment that the light began to fade. And then some.

  When just a ribbon of orange was left over the trees, I heard a car and saw the Pontiac’s headlights and the little chieftain’s head coming back up the drive. When Noreen got out of the car she was alone. By the time I had descended the tower, she was in the house and fixing herself a drink with a bottle of Cinzano vermouth and some tonic water. Hearing my footsteps, she said, “Freshen your glass?”

  “I’ll help myself,” I said, coming over to the little table. She turned away as I came alongside her. I heard a little peal of ice cubes as she upended the tall glass and swallowed the frozen contents.

  “They’re keeping him in for observation,” she said.

  “Good idea.”

  “Those fucking bastards pulled out all his fingernails.”

  Without López around to see the funny side of that, I was through making jokes about it. I hardly wanted Noreen getting sharp with me again. I’d had enough of that for one day. I just wanted to sit down in an armchair and have her stroke my head, if only to remind me that it was still on my shoulders and not hanging on anyone’s wall.

  “I know. They told me.”

  “The army?”

  “It certainly wasn’t the Red Cross that did it.”

  She was wearing navy blue slacks and a matching bouclé cardigan. The slacks weren’t particularly slack in the only place it counted, and the cardigan seemed to be short a couple of little plaited leather buttons on the lower slopes of her bosom. Her hand sported a sapphire that was the bigger sister of the two in her earlobes. The shoes were dark brown leather, as were the belt around her waist and the handbag she had tossed onto an armchair. Noreen had always been good at matching things. It was only me that seemed to clash with the rest of her. She looked awkward and ill at ease.

  “Thanks,” she said. “For what you did.”

  “I didn’t do it for you.”

  “No. And I think I can understand why. But thank you anyway. I’m sure it’s the most courageous thing I’ve heard of since I came to Cuba.”

  “Don’t tell me that. I feel bad enough already.”

  She shook her head. “Why? I don’t understand you at all.”

  “Because it makes me sound like what I’m not. In spite of what you once thought, angel, I was never cut out to be a hero. If I was anything like the person you think I am, I wouldn’t have lasted half as long as I have. I’d be dead in some Ukrainian field, or forgotten forever in some stinking Russian prison camp. Not to mention what happened before all that, in those comparatively innocent times when people thought the Nazis were the last word in true evil. You tell yourself you can put aside your principles and make a pact with the devil just to keep out of trouble and remain alive. But you do it often enough, and it gets so that you’ve forgotten what those principles were. I used to think I could stand apart from it all. That I could somehow inhabit a nasty, rotten world and not become like that myself. But I found out that you can’t. Not if you want to see another year. Well, I’m still alive. I’m still alive because, if the truth be told, I’m just as bad as the rest of them. I’m alive because other people are dead, and some of them were killed by me. That’s not courage. That’s just this.” I pointed at the antelope head on the wall. “He understands what I’m talking about even if you don’t. The law of the jungle. Kill or be killed.”

  Noreen shook her head. “Nonsense,” she said. “You’re talking nonsense. That was war. It was kill or be killed. That’s what war is. And it was ten years ago. Lots of men feel the way you do about what they did in the war. You’re being much too hard on yourself.” She took hold of me and put her head on my chest. “I won’t let you say those things about yourself, Bernie. You’re a good man. I know it.”

  She looked up at me, wanting me to kiss her. I stood there, letting her hold me tight. I didn’t pull away or push her off. I didn’t kiss her, either. Although I badly wanted to. Instead I grinned at her, tauntingly.

  “What about Fredo?”

  “Let’s not talk about him right now. I’ve been stupid, Bernie. I can see that now. I should have been honest with you from the beginning. You’re not really a killer.” She hesitated. Her eyes were filling with tears. “Are you?”

  “I love you, Noreen. Even after all these years. I didn’t know it myself until quite recently. I love you, but I can’t lie to you. A man who really wanted to have you would do that, I think. Lie to you, I mean. He’d say anything to get you back at all costs. I’m certain of it. Well, I can’t do it. There has to be someone in this world you can tell the truth to.”

  I took hold of her elbows and looked her squarely in the eye.

  “I’ve read your books, angel. I know what kind of a person you are. It’s all there, between the covers, hidden under the surface like an ice-berg. You’re a decent person, Noreen. Well, I’m not. I’m a killer. And I’m not just talking about the war. As a matter of fact, I killed someone only last week, and it certainly wasn’t a case of kill or be killed. I killed a man because he had it coming and because I was afraid of what he might do. But mostly I killed him because I wanted to kill him.

  “It wasn’t Dinah who killed Max Reles, angel. It wasn’t even any of his Mafia friends in the casino, either. It was me. I killed him. I shot Max Reles.”

  24

  AS YOU KNOW, Reles had offered me a job at the Saratoga, and I’d accepted it, but only with the intention of finding an opportunity to kill him. How to do this looked more difficult. Max was heavily protected. He lived in a penthouse at the Saratoga that could only be accessed by a key-operated elevator. And the elevator door
s in the penthouse were watched closely by Max’s bodyguard, Waxey, who searched everyone going into the penthouse.

  “But I had the idea how I might do it almost as soon as I saw the type of revolver that your friend Hemingway had given you. The Nagant. I came across that type of pistol a lot during the war. It was the standard-issue sidearm for all Russian army and police officers, and with one important modification—a Bramit silencer—it was the execution weapon of choice for the Russian special services. Between January 1942 and February 1944 I worked for the Wehrmacht War Crimes Bureau investigating both Allied and German atrocities. One of the crimes we investigated was the Katyń Forest massacre. This would have been in April 1943, after an Army Group intelligence staff officer had found a mass grave containing the bodies of four thousand Poles some twenty kilometers west of Smolensk. All of the men were officers of the Polish army and had been executed with a single shot in the back of the head by NKVD death squads. And all using the same type of revolver: the Nagant.

  “The Russians were devious and methodical in the way they had gone about things. The way they are about everything. Sorry, but that’s just the truth. It would have been impossible to execute four thousand men unless certain precautions were first taken to conceal the sound of these executions from those who were yet to die. Otherwise they’d have rioted and overrun their captors. So the murders themselves took place at night, in windowless cells that had been sound-insulated with several mattresses, and using silenced Nagant revolvers. One of these silencers came into my possession during the investigation, and I was able to study its design and to test a silenced weapon on a firing range. Which meant that as soon as I saw your revolver I knew that I could manufacture a Bramit silencer in my metal shop at home.

  “My next problem was this: How was I going to get into the penthouse carrying the revolver? It so happened that Max had given me a gift—a custom-made backgammon set in an attaché case that contained all the checkers and the dice and the dice cups. But there was also room for a revolver and its newly made silencer. And I thought there was little chance of Waxey searching it, especially as the case had combination locks.

  “Max had told me that he used to play cards once a week with some of the Havana underworld. He also told me that the game always ended at eleven-thirty, exactly fifteen minutes before he retired to his office and took a phone call from the president, who owns a piece of the Saratoga. He asked me to come along, and when I went, I took with me the attaché case containing the silenced revolver, and placed it on his pool terrace. When I left the penthouse with everyone else at eleven-thirty, I went back down to the casino and waited a few minutes. It was Chinese New Year, the night when they set off a lot of fireworks at the Barrio Chino. It’s pretty deafening, of course. Especially on the rooftop of the Saratoga.

  “Anyway, because of the fireworks I figured Reles would finish his call with the president early. And as soon as I had let the casino manager see me back in the casino after going up to the penthouse for the first time, I returned to the eighth floor. Which was as far as I could go, of course, without an elevator key.

  “But on the corner of the building they’re repairing the Saratoga’s neon sign, which meant that there was some scaffolding on which someone might climb up from the eighth floor to the penthouse terrace. Someone with a head for heights. Or someone who was determined to kill Max Reles at almost any cost. It was quite a climb, I can tell you. And I needed both hands to do it. I certainly couldn’t have managed that climb with the revolver in my hand, or tucked into my belt. That was why I needed to leave the weapon on Max’s terrace.

  “Max was still on the phone when I got up there again. I could hear him talking to Batista, going through the figures with him. It seems that the president takes his thirty percent stake in the Saratoga very seriously. I opened the case, took out the revolver, screwed on the silencer, and quietly approached the open window. Maybe I had a few second thoughts at that moment. And then I remembered 1934 and how he’d shot two people in cold blood right in front of me, when we were aboard a boat on Lake Tegel. You were already on your way back to the States when it happened, but he threatened to have his brother, Abe, kill you when you arrived back in New York unless I cooperated with him. I knew I was safe. More or less. I already had evidence of his corruption that would have put him away. But I had no means of stopping his brother from killing you. After that, we kind of held each other in check, at least until the Olympics were over and he went back to the States. But like I said earlier: he had it coming. And as soon as he put the phone down I fired. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. He saw me just before I pulled the trigger the first time. I think he even smiled.

  “I shot him seven times. I went to the edge of the little terrace and tossed the revolver into a basket of towels by the swimming pool on the eighth floor. Then I climbed down. I covered the revolver with some more towels and went into a bathroom to clean myself up. By the time the firecrackers started I was already in the elevator, going back down to the casino. The plain fact of the matter is that I’d forgotten about the fireworks when I made the silencer, otherwise I might not have bothered. But as it happened, it enabled me to use the fireworks after the fact, as a different kind of cover.

  “Well, the next day I went back to the Saratoga, like everything was normal in my life. There was no way around that. I had to act normally, or suspicion would have fallen on me. As it was, Captain Sánchez marked my card for the murder right from the very beginning. He might have made it stick, too, until I managed to convince Lansky that the murder might not have taken place under cover of the noise from the fireworks—as everyone seemed to think it had. And the police were helpful there. They hadn’t even bothered to search for the murder weapon. I flexed my Adlon Hotel detective muscles and suggested a search of the laundry baskets. Not long afterward, they found the gun.

  “As soon as those mobsters saw the silencer on the revolver, they began to think it might be a professional killing—something to do with their business in Havana and probably nothing to do with something that started twenty years ago. Better still, I was able to suggest that the silencer meant that the murder could have happened at any time, not necessarily during the fireworks, as the captain had suggested. Effectively that discredited his theory about my being the killer and left me looking like Nero Wolfe. Anyway, that was Gunther in the clear, I thought, only I’d been too convincing for my own good. Meyer Lansky appreciated the way I’d bested the cop; and since Max had already told him something about my background as a Berlin homicide detective, Lansky decided that, in the interest of avoiding a Mafia war in Havana, I was now the man best qualified to handle the investigation of Max Reles’s death.

  “For a moment or two I was horrified. And then I began to see the possibility of putting myself completely in the clear for it. All I needed was somewhere safe to lay the blame that wouldn’t result in anyone else getting killed. I had no idea that they would kill Waxey, Max’s bodyguard, as a sort of insurance policy, just in case he really did have something to do with it. So you could say I killed him, too. That was unfortunate. Anyway, by a stroke of good luck for me, although not for him, one of the pit bosses at the Saratoga, a fellow named Irving Goldstein, was involved with a female impersonator at the Palette Club; and when I found out that he’d killed himself because Max had been on the brink of firing him for being a pansy, well, he seemed made to order to take the blame. So the night before last I went to search his apartment with Captain Sánchez, and I planted the technical drawing I’d made of the Bramit silencer and made sure that Sánchez found it.

  “Later on I showed the drawing to Lansky and told him it was prima facie evidence that it had probably been Goldstein who murdered Max Reles. And Lansky agreed. He agreed because he wanted to agree, because any other result would have been bad for business. More importantly, it left me in the clear. So. There it is. You can relax. It certainly wasn’t your daughter that killed him. It was me.”

  “I d
on’t know how I could ever have suspected her,” said Noreen. “What kind of mother am I?”

  “Don’t even think about it.” I smiled wryly. “As a matter of fact, when she saw the murder weapon at the penthouse, she recognized it straightaway and later on she told me she thought it might have been you who killed Max. It was all I could do to convince her that the gun was a common one in Cuba. Even though it isn’t. That’s the first Russian weapon I’ve ever seen in Cuba. Of course, I could have told her the truth, but when she announced that she was going back to America, I couldn’t see the point. I mean, if I’d told her that, I might have had to tell her everything else. I mean, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Her to leave Havana, and go to college?”

  “And that’s why you killed him,” she said.

  I nodded. “You were quite right. You couldn’t let her stay with a man like that. He was going to take her somewhere they could smoke opium, and God only knows what else. I killed him because of what she might have become if she’d actually married him.”

  “And because of what Fredo told you when you went to his office in the Bacardi Building.”

  “He told you about that?”

  “On the way to the hospital. That’s why you helped him, isn’t it? Because he told you that Dinah is your daughter.”

  “I was waiting to hear you say it, Noreen. And now you have, I guess I can mention it. Is it true?”

  “It’s a little late to be asking that, isn’t it? In view of what happened to Max.”

  “I could say much the same thing to you, Noreen. Is it true?”

  “Yes. It’s true. I’m sorry. I should have told you, but that would have meant telling Dinah that Nick wasn’t her father; and until he died, she’d always had a much better relationship with him than with me. It felt like I’d have been taking that away from Dinah at a time when I most needed to exercise some influence over her, do you see? If I’d told her, I don’t know what the result might have been. When it happened—I mean, in 1935, when she was born—I thought about writing to you. Several times. But each time I thought about it, I saw how good Nick was with her, and I simply couldn’t do it. He always thought Dinah was his daughter. But a woman always knows these things. As the months and then the years went by, it seemed less and less relevant. Eventually the war came, and that appeared to end for good any idea of telling you that you had a daughter. I wouldn’t have known where to write. When I saw you again, in the bookstore, I couldn’t believe it. And naturally I thought about telling you that same evening. But you made a rather tasteless remark that left me thinking you might be another of Havana’s bad influences. You seemed so hard-bitten and cynical I hardly recognized you.”