The Bootlegger by Clive Cussler (the best motivational books .TXT) 📕

Finally, he muttered, “The worst part of being demoted into semi-retirement is that beautiful private detectives no longer call on me for favors.”

“This must come as a great relief to your wife.”

Fritz Richter laughed out loud. “Pauline, Pauline, you always did brighten the day.”

Pauline answered him formally. “You will please remember, Herr Polizeikommandeur, that I asked for information—not favors—and I always give you information back.”

“It’s been too long a time, Fräulein Privatdetektive.”

“I’m home from the United States only this evening. You are the first old acquaintance I have called on.”

“Go back, is my advice. Make a new life in a new country. Our Germany is exploding again.”

“I don’t want a new country.”

“There’s a new one coming whether you want it or not. Our warring Nationalists and Communists and Social Democrats and National Socialists and Freikorps and Red Hundreds—a plague on all their houses—are not fighting for their supposed ideals. They are fighting for the spoils of the World War.”

“Our chief investigator told me that not ten days ago in New York.”

“How unusual. I don’t think of Americans as taking the long view. Did he tell you, too, that the winner—the best organized and most ruthless—will dictate the future of ordinary people who are trying to avoid the fight?”

“Semi-retirement has brought out the gloomy philosopher in you.”

“There will be no gracious winners, no knights in shining armor.” He signaled the waiter. “May I buy you beer, young lady?”

“No. Let Van Dorn pay.” She ordered beer and, suddenly realizing she was starving: “I haven’t eaten all day. Will you join me?”

Richter nodded and lit a new cigarette from the ember of the old. He wouldn’t eat but she ordered anyway. “Weisswurst.”

Richter raised his glass. “Prost!”

“Cheers! I’m tracking a man named Johann Kozlov who was deported last year by the Americans. He made his way back to America, where he was shot in the Cheka way.”

“Comintern. Yes?”

“I would say, yes. Who can I talk to?”

He eyed her appraisingly. “What is it worth to you?”

She returned a look that put Fritz Richter in mind of an alpine blizzard. “If I would not sleep with an important police commander for information, why would I sleep with a demoted, semi-retired old lecher?”

Before he could think of an answer, she broke into a smile that left him no choice but to smile back, duck his head, and murmur, “You can’t blame an old lecher for trying.”

Which led to an introduction to someone she did not know at the Foreign Office.

•   •   •

AT BELLEVUE HOSPITAL, Isaac Bell found Joseph Van Dorn propped up on pillows and gazing expectantly at the door. He had a week’s growth of new beard on his cheeks, which made him look a little healthier. His eyes were clearer but hardly piercing, and Bell had to work hard to put a smile on his face. The founder of the Van Dorn Detective Agency looked old and very, very tired.

“There you are,” Van Dorn whispered.

“Came as soon as they let me. How are you?”

Dorothy Van Dorn and David Novicki were hovering. Novicki said, “I was just entertaining our pal here with tales of my retirement, wasn’t I, Joe? ‘Barnacle Bill’ is home from the sea. Joe won’t believe that I was driving a trolley on Long Island.”

Van Dorn whispered, “Passengers have no idea what a hand they have at the helm.”

“Trolley went bust,” says Novicki. “I’m going to drive a taxi.”

“Dorothy,” Van Dorn whispered. “Why don’t you and Dave grab yourself some lunch. I need to talk with Isaac.”

“Not too much,” she said.

“We’ll behave ourselves. Don’t you worry.”

Dorothy kissed him on the forehead and leveled her silvery gray eyes on Bell. “Go easy. He’s not out of the woods yet. But he’s been clamoring to see you.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tire him.”

Van Dorn waited until his wife and friend were out the door. Then he asked Bell in a hoarse whisper, “How’s it going in Detroit?”

“Worse than we thought.”

Bell explained that the entire field office was being undermined by corruption, including the supposedly loyal detective Van Dorn had put in charge.

“We have to clear ’em out and rebuild from scratch.”

“Send Kansas City Eddie Edwards,” Van Dorn replied in a voice so low Bell could barely hear. “He’ll straighten them out.”

“Eddie’s not getting any younger,” said Bell. “And Detroit’s getting tougher. I sent Texas Walt.”

“Hatfield? Isn’t he out west, making moving pictures?”

“Walt’s taking time off.”

“I hope he hasn’t gone soft. All that Hollywood high living.”

“If Walt’s gone soft, it doesn’t show.”

Van Dorn closed his eyes. He lay silent, his chest barely moving with his breath. When he finally opened his eyes again, Bell said, “I do have better news about Protective Services.”

“What’s that?”

“Darnedest thing, but when the word got out that Clayton and Ellis were let go, our hotel dicks took notice all around the country.”

“How do you know?”

“I sent agents disguised as bootleggers to offer bribes.”

“Good for you!”

“The boys told them to get lost. Several were so emphatic, they threw punches.”

“That is a great relief. How are we doing with the Coast Guard?”

“I’m sorry, Joe. They canceled the contract.”

“Damnation!” Van Dorn erupted, which set him to coughing. Bell held a handkerchief for him and then gave him water. Van Dorn caught his breath. “I was really hoping we could parley new government work out of that. I got shot and lost the client. No justice in the world.”

Bell was relieved to see a wry smile on Van Dorn’s bristly cheeks. He said, “I’ll try and learn what our chances are when I finally get through to the Coast Guard chief of staff.”

“O.K. . . . How are we doing with the gang who shot up the cutter?”

“One of them showed up at Roosevelt Hospital, wounded. Before I could interview him, someone killed him.”

Van Dorn whispered, “What for?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they thought you were dead and they’d be facing murder charges if they didn’t kill the witness. At any rate, I almost caught the guy who shot him, but I lost him. I doubt I’d recognize him if he walked