The Hunt

Indian summer had settled over eastern Pennsylvania. The golden colors of fall were replacing the green of summer and a soft breeze stirred the trees in the cemetery. They walked down the rows of markers, looking for the grave of Fred Dempsey. Keegan was more convinced than ever that Dempsey was their man. Dryman, even though he had made the connection, was still skeptical.

On the flight from Indiana to Pennsylvania, Keegan had finally explained their mission to Dryman.

“C’mon, Kee, you really believe this bank clerk was a Nazi spy?”

“I’m convinced of it,” Keegan replied.

“Well, if it was him he’s probably been dead for five years. Probably floated up somewhere along the river and the dogs ate him,” Dryman answered.

“H.P., the railroad runs right past where the car went into the river in Drew City and ends at Lafayette,” said Keegan. “Now, supposing you had just faked your own death and you had to get out of town. How would you do it? You can’t drive, can’t take a bus or hitchhike. You can’t afford to be seen. But. . . you could hop a freight. And if Fred Dempsey jumped a rattler, he would’ve walked into the middle of that brawl at the Hooverville.”

“If, if, if,” Dryman grumbled. Then Keegan grabbed him by the elbow and pointed to a plot. It was well cared for, the grass neatly trimmed and small plot of flowers at the foot of the section. A large headstone was bracketed on either side by two smaller stones, one of which read:

Frederick Dempsey

Born: Feb. 3, 1900 Died: Feb. 7, 1900

Taken from this earth after four days

Beloved for a lifetime

“Convinced?” an elated Keegan cried.

Keegan was not satisfied with just one subject. Recalling what Tangier had told him, that people on the run sometimes set themselves up with more than one identity, he and Dryman checked the rest of that cemetery and five others in the city. They strolled through the rows of tombstones, jotting down the names of all male children born between 1890 and 1910 who had died within two weeks of their birth. By the end of the day they had the names of twelve male children to check. It was a long shot, Keegan agreed, but so was the search that had turned up Fred Dempsey.

They had little trouble getting birth certificates of all twelve. Death certificates were recorded on a separate floor in the courthouse. Eddie Tangier was right, the state made no correlation between life and death. The certificates were not cross-referenced. As far as the clerk in the vital statistics department knew, Fred Dempsey was alive and well. Little did she realize how alive and well he was.

Keegan met Mr. Smith in a small Chinese restaurant in Georgetown. By arrangement, Keegan arrived first and was ushered into a small private room in the back. Smith arrived ten minutes later, entering through a back door after taking his usual circuitous route. The tall, enigmatic dog robber listened patiently as Keegan described the trip to Drew City and Erie, Pennsylvania.

“So. . . we know our Mr. X assumed the identity of Fred Dempsey,” Keegan concluded. “He lived in Drew City for nine months, never caused any trouble and might have even married Louise Scoby if fate disguised as John Dillinger hadn’t walked into his life.”

“Seems to me you may be stretching a point, tying him to the killer in the hobo camp,” Smith answered.

“Why? It makes perfect sense.”

“But there’s no proof. .

“We’re not trying the son of a bitch in court, Mr. Smith. I assure you, if Fred Dempsey and Twenty-seven are one and the same, then he did not die. He’s alive and well. He is six feet tall, about one-eighty, green eyes. Obviously he was wearing those new-type colored contact lenses and he lost one in the fight at the Hooverville.”

“How do you know that?” Smith asked skeptically.

“We know this guy is a master of disguise. He had gray eyes when he lived in Drew City. Joe Cobb saw a man with one gray eye and one green eye. It’s obvious that Twenty-seven lost one of the gray lenses in the fight and his eyes are green. And since he went to all that trouble to change the color of his eyes and he’s German, my guess is he’s blond. He uses a gold cigarette lighter with a wolf’s head on the top, rolls his own cigarettes using Prince Albert tobacco, loves movies and the ladies, and hasn’t a trace of an accent. I’ll tell you something else, this guy doesn’t shake. He’s one cool operator. He shacked up with Louise Scoby knowing the C-men were on their way to Drew City. And he likes to kill people, Mr. Smith. He shacked up with Louise Scoby for months, then broke her neck and dumped her in the river like that he snapped his fingers sharply “. . . to set up an alibi. He killed two men and blinded another one because they saw him and might tie him back to Fred Dempsey in Drew City. I’m beginning to understand this guy, Mr. Smith. I’m beginning to know how he thinks and how he operates.”

“If what you say is true, he’s more dangerous than we anticipated.”

“I never doubted that for a moment.”

Keegan took a list of names from his pocket.

“I’ve got twelve names for you. I believe one of them is our German sleeper agent. All of them were born in Erie, Pennsylvania, between 1890 and 1910. If I’m right, he applied for two passports in May 1933, one under the name Fred Dempsey, the other under one of those names on that list. He’d want to be able to get to Europe, to be able to escape in case something else happened.”

He leaned across the table, his eyes alive with excitement.

“If I can get a look at his passport application, I’ll know what he looks like and possibly where he lives now.”

“Doesn’t it seem likely he’s changed identities again since then?”

“Why? He has no idea we’re on to him. If he’s settled in some place, like he was in Drew City, why would he change? The more accepted he is, the safer he is.”

“That’s assuming Dempsey was your man.”

“He’s got to be.”

“But supposing you’re wrong, Mr. Keegan?”

“Then I’m beat,” Keegan said. “But I don’t believe I am. I’m right about Dempsey, Mr. Smith, and if any of those twelve names matches up to a passport application, we got our man.”

“That kind of information is highly confidential. This is not an easy task.”

“C’mon,” Keegan said. “Nothing’s too tough for the world’s greatest dog robber.”

Smith sighed. He recognized cajolery and flattery—but he was not immune to it. He toyed with the list for a few moments and shrugged.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Keegan and Dryman checked into the Mayflower to await the result of Mr. Smith’s investigation. Two days later, Smith met Keegan in the back room of the Regal restaurant a few blocks from the Capitol.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I had to drive all over the city to dump the twins.”

“What’s the latest news?”

“The whole city’s in an uproar. Everybody expects it’s just a matter of days before Hitler attacks Poland. Neville Chamberlain’s ‘peace in our time’ treaty wasn’t worth a lead nickel.”

He put a small brown envelope on the table in front of Keegan.

“You better face facts, Mr. Keegan,” Smith said as Keegan eagerly checked the contents of the envelope. “If this lead doesn’t pan out and Germany attacks Poland, you’re off the case. Hoover’s gone bananas on the subject of security.” He stopped for a moment and nodded toward the contents of the envelope. “And I broke at least three laws to get you that information.”

“Isn’t that what dog robbing is all about?” Keegan answered with his crooked grin.

He read the passport application and his heart picked up a few beats. There was no photograph, but there was an artist’s sketch showing a handsome man with a dark beard, longish hair and spectacles.

“I couldn’t lift the photograph so I had a sketch made for you,” said Smith. “Of course he could have shaved off his beard, changed his hair color . . . Well, what do you think?”

“Could be him,” Keegan said flatly.

He read the passport information:

John Trexler, born Erie, Pa., November 2, 1898.

Passport application: August 12, 1933. Renewed: February 9, 1938.

Occupation: Ski instructor.

Address: Mountain Way, Aspen, Colorado.

He was hiding his excitement. Now he was sure that John Trexler was Fred Dempsey and both were Siebenundzwanzig, the Nazi agent 27. Keegan knew the real John Trexler was born in Erie on that date and had died a week later. This had to be their man.

“Listen, Keegan, don’t go grandstanding on this, okay?” said Smith, and for the first time he showed concern. “If you’re sure he’s your man, take plenty of help.”

“Oh, absolutely, Mr. Smith. Absolutely.”

In the weather room at National Airport, Dryman pored over maps and weather charts, shaking his head as he studied them.

“This could be hairy, Boss, very hairy,” he said, holding a thermal chart next to the sectional map. “We got a front moving in from Canada. They already had their first snowstorm of the season earlier this week. There’s four inches of snow on the ground and a blizzard coming in.”

He looked up at Keegan.

“Mountains all over the place. Big mountains—like fifteen- thousand-footers—and this place is in a pocket. Look here.”

He pointed to a large sectional of the area. The town was surrounded by mountains, two of which, to the north and south, were indeed almost fifteen thousand feet high. Dryman traced his finger down a heavy line that coursed south a few miles west of the town.

“That’s the Continental Divide. We’re gonna have to fly over it and nose-dive into that airfield, which I’ll guess is nothing but a cow pasture with a wind sock. I say we forget it until after the front moves by.”

“Why should that bother you, you’re the one who prefers to land on highways and in cornfields?” Keegan answered. “How much time do we have before the storm hits?”

Dryman read the weather strip.

“They’re expecting bad weather to move in by late afternoon. It’s a seven, eight-hour flight when you figure in at least three stops for gas.” He looked at his watch. Five A.M. “If we’re real lucky we may be able to sneak in ahead of the storm. Otherwise we’ll end up in Lost Overshoe, Nebraska, or some dipshit town in Kansas. That’s if we don’t wind up in the side of a mountain.”

“Hey, Mister Hot Pilot, you crapping out on me? You’re the one was bragging about flying through dishwater when you were hauling the mail.”

“That’s hittin’ below the belt, Kee. That’s a real shot in the groin. We’re looking at mountains and snow here.”

“I say we give it a shot, H.P. If Aspen does get snowed in and we have to sit down someplace along the way, remember, he can’t get out either. At least we’ll be close. The minute the storm blows over we can move on him.”

“It’s gonna be colder’n hell out there”

“Then we’ll have to get some warm clothes.” Keegan said. “And we need to get ourselves a couple of pistols

They had picked up a strong tail wind somewhere over Missouri and were approaching the Colorado Rockies by three P.M. Ahead of them was a wall of ragged, threatening mountains. Black storm clouds broiled over angry, towering peaks draped in snow and ice and surrounded by ragged tors. As they flew toward the mass of rock and snow, howling winds began buffeting the small plane. For fifteen minutes Dryman tried to raise the radio at the Aspen airport without success. The storm rushing down from the north turned afternoon into twilight. The fuel gauge was twitching on empty.

Dryman pressed the button on his mike.

“Aspen local this is Army 457, do you read me? Over.”

Nothing.

“Either I can’t break through all this interference,” he yelled back to Keegan, “or they’ve shut down because of the storm.”

“Let’s just find the damn strip and get on the ground,” Keegan answered.

“Easier said than done,” Dryman answered. “There’s a fifteen-thousand-foot mountain between us and the town and so much snow on the ground we probably won’t be able to see it anyway. And these clouds aren’t helping. It’s getting darker by the minute.”

“Then put it down on the highway or in a field or any-damn where!”

“Aspen local, Aspen local,” Dryman kept repeating. “This is a distress call. This is Army 457 calling Aspen local

The radio crackled with static and then a faint voice faded in and out: “. . . is Aspen . . . the air. . . losed. . . you can hea on the phone and.

“Aspen local, this is Army 457. I’m having trouble reading you. We are about twenty miles south of you on the opposite side of Castle Peak. Do you read?”

They were flying below the tops of the mountains and the winds became stronger, more erratic. The plane, buffeted by the turbulence, suddenly dropped off on one wing and spun out. Dryman slammed the stick forward as the plane spiraled out, pulled back on the throttle and stopped the spin. He pulled out of the drive and swept across a snow-swept valley. The mountains towered above them. Keegan could almost reach out and touch the straggly pine trees as the plane slowly started to climb back up. Sheer cliffs surrounded them.

Dryman frantically checked the map. There had to be a way out of the pocket they had dropped into. He began to circle and climb, circle and climb, going for altitude to clear the fifteen thousand-foot Sawatch Range. But as they hit fourteen thousand feet the engine began to falter again. The plane shuddered as Dryman pushed it to the limit, but wind, storm and thin air were choking out the engine. He circled again as he scanned the sectional map in his lap. Then he saw a notation between two of the mountain peaks, “Independence Pass, 12,095 feet.”

“I can’t seem to bust fifteen thousand feet,” Dryman called back to Keegan. “There’s a pass over there to our west. It’s our only chance to get on the other side of this range.”

He tightened his circles, the plane skimming the treetops as he searched for the cleft in the mountain range.

“There!” Keegan cried. “Off to the left.”

It was a narrow gorge that sliced deep into the foreboding wall of mountains. Dryman peeled off and dove straight into the cut. Keegan’s knuckles were white. The plane was roaring through a claustrophobic canyon less than a hundred yards wide with sheer cliffs on both sides and harsh winds still wracking them.

As they zoomed out the end of the pass, the radio crackled to life:

“This is Aspen local, Army 457. Our field is closed.. . I can direct you south to . .

“Negative, negative,” Dryman said, cutting him off. “I’m dodging mountains out here, I’m ten feet in front of a blizzard and I’m flying on fumes. I need some landing instructions fast.”

“Repeat, the field is closed, Army 457. It’s already beginning to snow here and .

“Listen here, Aspen, I’m running out of fuel and it’s getting darker by the second. I’m coming down. Give me wind and runway instructions.”

“You can’t even see the runway,” came the answer. “We haven’t cleared it Off since the storm last week. We’ve still got two or three inches of snow out there!”

“Then turn on your lights and say a prayer,” Dryman answered.

“We haven’t got any lights! Wait a minute . . . I can hear you. You’re north of the field.”

“You got a truck or car there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well pull out on the front end of the runway, aim it down the strip and turn on the lights. I’ll have to feel this one in.”

“Mister, you’re crazy!”

“You’re probably right, but I don’t have any choice. I’m going to have to dump this into that pocket you’re in. Get movin’, pal . .

There were mountains all around them and the snow was slashing at the cabin windows. Dryman peeled up on one wing and dove down the side of one of the mountains, then pulled out and skimmed across the village at about five hundred feet.

“I think the airport’s over there someplace,” he said, pointing vaguely to the left.

“You don’t know?”

“Hey, Boss, I can’t see anything in front of us. I’m really flying by the seat of my pants.”

Suddenly in front of and below them, through the slashing snow pellets, they saw headlights flash on.

“Glorioski, Sandy, there it is,” Dryman yelled enthusiastically. “All we gotta do now is land.”

The plane roared across the east-west strip heading south. Dryman peeled up, stood the plane on her wing and swung around in a tight arc one hundred feet off the ground, did a perfect 270-degree bank, leveled off, dropped down and hopscotched over the top of the car, clearing it by five feet.

“Hang on!” Dryman yelled as he cut power and pulled the nose up. The plane whooshed down and thudded hard on the frozen ground. Snow showered up over the wings and pummeled the cabin. Dryman pumped the brakes, trying to keep the plane from skidding out from under him. The fence at the end of the field rushed toward them. Then he slammed hard on the right brake and the plane spun around twice and stopped.

They sat for a full minute staring out at the snow flurries that fluttered around them.

“Beautiful,” the pilot finally said half aloud. He turned and looked back at the rear cockpit. A pale Keegan smiled wanly back at him and gave him a thumbs-up sign.

“Always remember,” Dryman said with a laugh. “Any one you can walk away from is a good one.”

The airport manager drove up through the snow, the chains on his tires clinking against the fenders of his car. He jumped out, a young redheaded man in his mid-twenties, his eyes still bugged from the spectacle of watching Dryman make it safely to the ground.

“You guys okay?” he said as they climbed out of the plane.

“I’m ten years older than I was an hour ago,” Keegan replied with a sigh.

“Amazing! Amazing!” the young man yelled. “I’ve never seen anybody fly like that!”

“And probably never will again,” Dryman said, climbing out of the plane. “You did real good, fella. What’s your name?”

“Jesse Manners,” he said sticking out his hand. Keegan jumped down from the wing and slogged through ankle-deep snow to shake hands with the young man.

“Keegan, White House Security,” he said. “This is my pilot, Captain Dryman.”

“Jesse Manners,” he repeated, shaking their hands. “I manage the airport here, such as it is. Why don’t you taxi over to the hangar? Least it’ll keep your plane from freezing up.”

“Good idea,” Dryman agreed.

“Mind if I drive with you?” Keegan asked. “I need to call the sheriff.”

“Sure, but he ain’t here. He’s over at Glenwood Springs to talk to the sheriff there. I seen him at lunch just as he was leavin’. You might try Duane Harris, he’s the forest ranger in charge, usually watches out for things when the sheriff’s off somewhere.”

“He’ll do.”

The ranger sounded friendly and a little awed by the fact that they had flown into Aspen in such bad weather. Manners provided hot coffee while they waited for Harris to drive fifteen miles from town to the airport. Keegan avoided Manners’s questions while they waited and finally the youthful manager went into the hangar to help Dryman check out the AT-6. Half an hour later a husky forest ranger in a heavy sheepskin jacket entered the airport office. He was in his late twenties, a pleasant, shaggy- haired man with the beginnings of a beard and a quick smile.

“Mr. Keegan? Duane Harris, U.S. Forestry Station,” he introduced himself.

“Good to see you,” Keegan said. “I really appreciate your help in this. Meet my pilot, Captain Dryman, H.P. for short.” He showed Harris his credentials and drew the ranger aside, speaking in a low voice. Manners, one of Aspen’s most notorious gossips, appeared to ignore them but his curious ears were keened to the conversation.

“I’m looking for a man named Trexler, John Trexler? You know him?”

“Why, hell, everybody knows Johnny. He works ski patrol for Highlands Resort. Is there a problem?”

“Just need to talk to him,” Keegan said. “I hate to impose on you, but the sheriff’s out of town and I thought maybe you could help us out.”

“Sure enough. Let’s get trottin’, though, this weather’s not gonna get any better. How the hell did you get in here anyway?”

“A great pilot and the luck of the Irish,” Keegan said with a smile as they went out into the storm.

Jesse Manners could hardly wait until Harris was on his way before he grabbed for the phone.

In his cabin, John Trexler was mentally tossing a coin. He had planned to drive the fifty miles into Leadville for the weekend but with the storm coming in he was having second thoughts. The phone rang. It was Jesse Manners at the airport.

“Hey, Johnny, you been holding out on everybody?” Manners asked.

“What do you mean?”

“About the White House?”

“What White House?”

“The White House. You some kind of big shot?”

“What the hell’re you talking about, Jesse?”

“An army plane just put on one hell of an air show out here. Came in right under the storm. Two guys from the White House. They’re comin’ out to talk to you. What’s going’ on, old buddy?”

“They’re from the White House?” Trexler repeated.

“That’s what they said. White House Security.”

White House Security? Trexler’s mind started racing. What could that be?

“It’s a secret, kid,” he said calmly. “Tell you about it later. And listen, Jesse, keep it under your hat for now, okay? It’s a surprise.”

“Sure, Johnny.”

Trexler cradled the phone and stood motionless in the room, his mind bombarded by questions. What in hell would two men from White House Security want with him? What the hell was White House Security? Did it have something to do with immigration? Had someone accidentally stumbled onto his false identity?

Was there a breach in security?

Impossible! Vierhaus, Hitler and Ludwig were the only ones who even knew of his existence. And yet, of all the possibilities that ran through his mind, that one seemed the most logical. While a breach was remote, it was the only thing that made sense.

The question was moot anyway. He could not take a chance, he had to run for it. He needed time and a lot of luck for what was ahead. He had to create another illusion.

He had his knapsack ready. After the incident in Drew City, Trexler was always ready to make an immediate escape. He went into the bedroom and lowered a ladder leading to a storage space in the ceiling of the cabin. He went up with a flashlight, unlocked a footlocker stored there and took out a rucksack. He had everything he needed in it: identification, cash, his long knife, a .45 Colt automatic and clothes. He tied the SS dagger to his right calf and strapped on a money belt containing his cash.

As he outfitted himself, he was working out a plan, one of several options he had formulated through the years. He went back down and threw enough clothes in his suitcase to appear as though he would be away for a couple of days.

He returned to the living room and called the ski patrol office at the lodge. Wes Childress, the patrol captain, answered.

“Wes, it’s Johnny,” he said, sounding as casual as possible. “I’m heading out for Leadville. Just thought I’d check out. I should be back Monday if the roads are clear.”

“You’re not going to make it, kiddo,” Childress answered. “This blizzard’s on us already.”

“If I hurry I can run down Route 82 and beat it to the main highway. Is Soapie still planning to make the run to Copperhead Ridge?”

“Yeah, I just talked to him.”

“Does he need help?”

“Nah, you know Old Soap. He’s used to this shit.”

“Okay. See you Monday.”

“You’re nuts, pal. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Trexler looked at his watch. He had thirty minutes at best. He left the cabin, locked it, threw his suitcase in the trunk of his car and drove down the two-hundred-yard driveway to the mountain road leading back into town. But he didn’t turn toward town, he headed up the mountain toward Soapie’s cabin.