The black hull of the Mercier sliced through the North Atlantic as the cold blast of late winter blew across her bow. The deck under my feet vibrated as giant screw propellers pushed us toward America. I sat for the first time in what seemed like days. The moments of peace and quiet had been few in the past weeks as we prepared for the crossing. The brilliant sun tried unsuccessful to drive the biting cold away from my second class deck chair located near the bow on the port side. The temperature was forty-five, but the seas were calm.
I wondered what would happen between Wolf and me. I loved every minute we spent together. He was sophisticated and gentle. He treated me with respect whether we were having brandy or having sex. Being with him was so natural. But I knew many people would think it was totally unnatural. No one in my family would understand but no one understands me anyway. Leaving to join the circus and shirking my responsibilities at home on the farm was bad enough. I could only imagine what they would think of me with Wolf. I felt my head’s negative motion going side to side. I closed my eyes and felt a chilling mist touch my cheeks. I pulled a blanket up around my shoulders.
The ship’s first mate, with his spectacles clamped to his nose, shook me awake. He told me to prepare our crew for a storm starting tonight or early morning. He said they had had reports from ships ahead of high seas and violent wind. I got up from my comfortable cocoon and went to the Janssen’s cabin. I told the boy and he told the others to sleep as much as they could since sleep might be difficult to steal after the storm started.
The Mercier had provided a smooth ride thus far. The Janssen family shared three small second class cabins, and it was hard for anyone to get restful sleep. I offered my cabin to Olaf, the father, and an uncle whose name I still couldn’t remember. Juno stayed with the horses, but slept on a cot given to him by one of the assistant stewards. With a $50,000 cargo as my responsibility, I insisted that someone be with the horses all the time. I tried to take my own advice and nap, but I was nervous at the thought of the storm. I rationalized that I could sleep when we returned to the United States.
I returned to the deck chair and leaned my head back against the pillow. I watched the sun’s icy glow slip toward the southwest horizon. As twilight faded shivering overtook my body. The blanket around my neck could not keep the chill out as the wind intensified. A steward gathered the chair cushions. Only minor undulations under the ship could be detected. The Mercier was not as long or as wide as I would have liked, but sailing from Antwerp rather than Rotterdam saved us at three days and was less traumatic for the horses. Heading home toward America gave me a good feeling.
After midnight, the slight, blond Janssen boy rapped on my door. I flung it open as if I suspected something was wrong.
“Hars doown.”
His words made my heart jump. I dressed in a minute and preceded him down the narrow hallway that led to the stairs into the bowels of the ship. My worst fear was sick horse and no veterinarian.
“What’d she eat?” I asked as we rushed toward the stalls.
“Grain mit th’athers,” the boy said shyly. “I puz fresh hay by’er.”
“New bale?”
“Yah.”
As soon as we got to the horses, we quickly retrieved what was left of the hay bale in the two stalls next to the sick horse. The horse was down and Olaf Janssen tried to get her to stand. The ship was pitching wildly. The hot, muggy air of the hold was polluted with the stench of coal smoke. Getting a fresh breath of air was impossible because the portholes were secured to keep the thrashing ocean out.
We cajoled, pushed, pulled and finally got the horse moved enough so her head was not jammed against the front wall of the stall. She refused to stand up. The ship pitched up and down and side to side as we braced ourselves the best we could. Her stomach seemed to be bloating before our eyes. We needed to get some medicine in her to reduce the gas. We couldn’t get it in her while she was down. I was fully aware if something didn’t happen this may be a death sentence. She was going to die from suffocation if we didn’t do something. The stallions squealed and kicked. I sent Kirk to get Juno and his uncle. He fell twice just trying to get to the stairs. We needed all hands. I spoke calmly to comfort the horses as the ship continued tossing wildly. While the boy was gone, a first mate came to check on things.
He told me that while the storm was violent, they received reports that it would only last twelve to fourteen hours. That sounded like an eternity to me. Juno arrived and went straight to the downed horse without acknowledging either of us. He followed directions well, so I couldn’t complain. I honestly had given up on the mare, but she was still alive. I watched Juno checked her eyes, nose, and tongue. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him slip a syringe out of his coat pocket. He plunged it into her neck and quickly returned the needle to his pocket. My attention was diverted to the young stud colt we bought on the last day at Lovenjoul. He had fallen and somehow gotten wedged against the side of the stall. Kirk and his uncle arrived, and the five of us moved the colt enough so he could stand up. Luckily no one got kicked.
Upon examination, we found only a slight bump on his right shoulder. He was a beautiful animal, but fear made him skittish. I stood and spoke softly, bracing myself against him. He seemed to appreciate my attention and nibbled on his grain box. Thankfully, Juno had insisted that we pad each of the stalls. At the time I thought it was unnecessary. I looked around to thank him, and noticed he stood inside the downed mare’s stall speaking to someone whose face I couldn’t see. When he detected my gaze, he quickly turned away. I wondered who Juno had been talking to.
Minutes later I walked toward the mare and looked at her eyes. She was calm and her breathing was much less labored. The ship continued to pitch and roll throughout the night. No one left the horses, and we finally coaxed the downed horse to her feet. She was wobbly but didn’t fall. Luckily the gas was being released as was the bad hay she must have taken in.
By eight the next morning, the rough seas subsided somewhat. The mare was up on her feet, and Juno came to her stall regularly. We checked the other horses for bruises and scratches, and fortunately there were few. I sent Kirk to find our steward to request coffee and food for us. The steward struggled to find a level enough surface to set the tray down, so each took a heavy porcelain cup from the tray as he splashed coffee into them. Looking at my crew I saw disheveled, tired, and dirty faces. No one complained and I suspected it was because we had too much on our minds to get seasick.
A few minutes later, food arrived and so did the captain.
“Rough night,” he said in a heavy German accent. “I ’ave ordered sur steward your food zu bringen ’til the seas quiet. Should be about eight more heurs.”
At that instant, we lurched to the left and several cups fell off the tray. The clatter startled the horses. The stallions kicked and squealed. We tried not to raise our voices, but everyone’s nerves were frayed. Juno grabbed his stomach, so I motioned that he get fresh air.
About two in the afternoon, I went to check on him. He opened the cabin door and quickly retreated to his bunk. As I stepped in, I spotted a syringe on his chest. The room was cramped because he had two badly scared sea trunks stored in his cabin. Everyone else’s luggage was stored in the hold.
His roommate was asleep in the other bunk. Juno looked pale and uncomfortable but indicated by pointing to a small desk clock that he would stand his watch at six. I left him in his bunk. The sea calmed, but waves still washed over the bow of the ship. When I went to the hold to check on the horses before dinner, Juno was on duty but looked quite pale. We opened a port hole cover to get some fresh air.
Dinner was the first sit-down meal in the past twenty-four hours, and only about half of the two hundred first-class passengers made an appearance. The captain invited me to sit at his table whenever I could since I had paid the most for passage to the United States. He constantly introduced me as the youngest boss he had ever met. He did this with some mockery in his voice and that irritated me. But sitting at his table brought me in contact with interesting people who were fascinated with my assignment. One man from New York offered me a job. He wanted me to travel back and forth to Europe carrying important documents. I politely took his card and stashed it in my pocket. For a moment it seemed like a good way to see Wolf. I promptly put it out of my mind.
That evening I met an interesting couple that I had noticed when we were in Antwerp. They were flamboyantly dressed with matching heavy coats with fir collars. Coming up the gangplank they wore a full brimmed hats and matching spectacles. At dinner they talked about their recent trip to Egypt and the fellow next to me kept putting his hand on my knee. I smiled at him and he returned the gesture. As we rose from dinner he invited me to join him and his friend for brandy and a cigar. I had been with enough men to recognize that their interest was more than brandy. But as tired as I was brandy with me is all they got.
I returned to the hold to check on the horses. The storm was over, and the ride became smoother. The seas were what the captain referred to as “winter calm.” Waves crashed over the bow causing ice to coat the front of the ship. As I stood for a few moments at the rail on the main promenade, the exposed, ice-coated anchor and chain sparkled in the glow of the blue moonlight. The wind blew cold against my cheeks.
The sun returned as we steamed steadily toward New York City. My crew carried out their duties effectively. The last night on board we ate together in the second class dining room. Juno and I plus the Janssen clan filled a table for ten. Kirk told me that the Janssens planned to trek to Wisconsin to settle near their relatives. For the very first time, Juno said more than one word or a short phrase. He spoke French, some of which I understood. Between Kirk, me, and the Janssen’s oldest daughter, we interpreted what he said. He planned to stay in New York City and wanted to go to the Rawlings Bros. Circus at Madison Square Garden to see if what he had gone through had been worth it. We understood his rapidly improving broken English and laughed at the joke.
The more I studied Juno the more convinced I was that he was more than just a simple immigrant. LaFevre recommended him so strongly, but I was not at all impressed with his way with horses. At the time, his versatility with a hammer seemed to balance his lack of horse sense. All too quickly he spoke passable English for someone who supposedly had no fluency. He spoke with the heavy accent that I often heard around the circus. His French seemed accented as well. But when I asked him where he grew up, he pretended not to understand the question. Even when translated into French by the Janssen girl, he responded with something like “all over.” I could not figure why he was so vague about where he grew up. At one point, he said the word “Juden” which Kirk told me was Jew, but that did not have significance for me.
I could not get the syringe incident out of my mind. On the last day of the crossing, I tried to discuss the syringe with Juno. He conveniently motioned that he didn’t understand.
“I komfort ze haarse,” he said.
I watched him after we docked.
All the passengers went through customs and immigration. Our group was the last of passengers to be processed. Juno was three or four people ahead of me in line. The immigration official seemed to dwell unusually long over his passport and papers. After a few minutes, Juno was invited into an office across the cavernous hall. I didn’t see him for quite a while and asked about him.
“Mind your own business. He’s Jewish. We have different procedures,” the official said.
“For being Jewish?”
“Keep moving kid, or I’ll have you detained.”
Juno stood and waited for me near the giant arched doorways that lead out of the reception hall. His face was pasty white. I said nothing to him as we were escorted by customs officials back onto the ship’s ramp to off-load the horses. I asked him what the officials had said to him. I mentioned his rattled state as I approached him. He startled me with his almost accent-free English.
“They searched me with no clothes. Make me stand naked in front sree men. I tell them why I want to come United States. Asshole police.”
He realized he had said too much. He paused and stepped away from me. I followed him closely trying to reassure him that his interrogation was not typical of what he would find in the United States. I realized when I checked my two large valises with a porter that Juno did not have his trunks with him.
He sprinted up the ramp and down the stairs into the cargo hold. Williams and Evans waited for us. We would take the horses to the quarantine pens in two trips. We would take three of the big stallions on each trip. When their halters were on, they pawed ready to get going. The cargo doors had been opened and the ramp set. Five Percherons and one Belgian stallion tried to out step each other as they walked down the gang plank. They stomped and spun to get free of the confines of the ship and the handlers. The men on the ropes kept the six of them apart as they kicked and pissed to mark their arrival in a new homeland.
The horses were even less cooperative as we loaded them onto the barge. The first trip to the quarantine pens was accomplished without incident even though it took Williams two hours to return. Those of us who stayed behind walked the remaining horses up and down the pier. I was proud because people stopped and admired my horses.
I made the second trip to New Jersey. The barge contained box stalls, where we put the mares. The three remaining stallions were tied as far apart as possible. Juno and the others stayed behind to gather our equipment. By the time we got back, Juno nailed a lid on the manure box, which was more than three quarters full. I still thought we should have dumped it overboard as we crossed the ocean. I had suggested that several times, but the men just shoveled manure into the box. The lid seemed odd to me because I had not seen it before. Juno must have built it earlier. We made quick work dismantling the stalls with sledge hammers and crowbars provided by the ship’s crew.
Juno and the men pulled out another large wooden crate and put buckets, uneaten grain, shovels, and pitch forks into it. I glanced inside to see if everything fit and noticed Juno’s trunks wedged in at the bottom of the crate. I helped the men quickly nail the lids closed. There was a knot in my stomach, and I wanted to be off the ship as quickly as possible. Several times customs officials and agriculture department inspectors walked into the hold but seemed uninterested in the boxes and walked on.
Six of plus several men from the ship’s crew muscled the crates to the cargo door. A big net dropped around the boxes. As soon as they were hoisted, we moved to the dock. I asked Juno to get my luggage, but he insisted that I send Kirk Janssen. I was irked. Juno’s unusual interest in the crates and his unwillingness to leave them made me more suspicious. The inspectors didn’t seem to care about the contents. The two crates were loaded onto a smaller boat, and Juno insisted on riding with them to New Jersey. When the boat moved away, I finally relaxed. Juno told us that he had relatives in Hoboken, New Jersey. I said farewell to the Janssens and gave three of them ten dollars each from my expense money. They were appreciative.
Williams told us that the horse crew would set up twelve-hour rotations for the next three weeks. Juno had asked earlier if he could be on the rotation. Williams wanted my opinion. Juno’s interest in staying with us was clearly related to those trunks buried at the bottom of the tool crate, but I gave my okay.
When we got to the New Jersey pens, I found that Evans had an old ticket wagon brought down from Bridgeport so the men would have shelter. At six o’clock that evening, I checked into the Summit Hotel at Forty-fifth Street and Tenth Avenue in Manhattan. Williams told us we would be only a couple of blocks from Madison Square Garden. When I approached the reception desk at the hotel, an older fellow looked up and shoved the registration book toward me. Just as abruptly he snatched it back, looked at my name, and slapped a key in the middle of the page. I picked up my bags and turned toward the elevator. Two men sat in the dimly lighted space smoking cigarettes. The blue haze that surrounded them both suggested they had many cigarettes.
After riding the elevator cage to the third floor, I walked down a short dingy hall to my room. I discovered that I shared the room with someone. I did not know who nor did I care. I got undressed and got into bed. Sometime during the night a body got into bed beside me. While I was aware of sounds, my brain and body were dead tired. I said nothing.
Hours later, I felt a butt up against mine. I opened my eyes to find George. He snored softly. He opened one eye as I greeted him like a long lost brother.
“I see you got my letter.”
“Yes, go to sleep. It’s too early,” he said groggy with sleep.
“Where were you last night? How’d you get checked in without me? Have any trouble since you’ve been in New York? How long have you been here anyway?”
I didn’t give him time to answer as I pulled on my pants and buttoned my shirt.
“I’ll tell you if you shut up for a minute.”
I slammed the door and went down the hall. He was dressed and sitting in a straight chair by the window when I returned. George recounted his trip from California in more detail than I cared to hear. I pretended attention as I stood at the sink washing my face and my teeth. I slipped on the only clean white shirt I had.
“Where you going? Can I come? I’m really hungry.”
“Sure, I’m starving, too. Maybe there’s a cafe close by.”
“Yeah, across the street.”
“Let’s go,” I said with my hand on the doorknob. “Move your butt. I’ve got to get over to Madison Square Garden. I bet it’s already nine or ten. Hurry up.”
After a wonderful Indiana-style breakfast of scrambled eggs, ham, toast and jelly paid for out of my expense money, we walked to the Garden. I had to return the remainder of the expense money to Mr. Wells. I figured that there was about one hundred dollars left plus a small assortment of Belgian and French coins. I should have left the coins on the ship for our porter but things happened so fast when the ship docked that I forgot.
After some effort, we found an open door at the Garden and looked for Mr.Williams.
“Excuse me, Mr. Wells, have you seen Mr. Williams today?”
“Not this morning ”
“I need to find him. And I need to return some money to you. Expense money. You gave it to me before I left for Europe.” That did get his attention.
“How much?” Natural question for an accountant I thought.
“Oh, about a hundred dollars.”
“Hold onto it until I talk to Mr. Rawlings. He’s supposed to be around between two and three.” That struck me funny because that means fourteen and fifteen hundred in European time reference, which made more sense to me.
“Wait, Newman, one other thing. There is a cable here for you. It came yesterday from Berlin. Who do you know in Berlin?” I smiled as I took it from his hand.
“Oh, someone I met in Belgium.” I thought that MacDougall was correct to be careful. I snatched the envelope.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
To avoid suspicion I opened it.“Talked to VL Tues. Said they were fired. Found heroin in their trunk. Rigging tampered according to VL. Died Wed. Watch yourself. MacDougall.” I tried to prevent Wells from seeing the sadness I felt.
“Bad news?”
“Yes,” I said. “A good friend had an accident. Looks like he may die.”
George’s timing was perfect. “That’s too bad. Maybe he won’t die.”
Wells didn’t probe any further. I refolded and stuffed the yellow cable paper in my shirt pocket.
“Where do they keep the animals?”
“Across the street. There’s an underground tunnel,” Wells said. George led the way to the tunnel and we immediately heard the elephants trumpeting.
I didn’t go to New Jersey that day to check on the horses. I saw Rawlings in the afternoon. He said he had heard from LaFevre that the trip had been a success. I smiled because I knew we had done a good job for the circus. I wondered what LaFevre meant by success. Juno’s trunks jumped into my mind.
The next morning George and I took the Eighth Avenue subway to the ferry terminal at the far south tip of Manhattan Island. We rode twenty minutes the across to New Jersey, and then another fifteen or twenty minutes by taxi. It was quicker, easier, and cheaper to have a truck waiting rather than relying on public transportation A Rawlings truck was parked at the USDA office when the taxi dropped us off. An official checked to see if our names were on the list. Mine was, but George’s wasn’t. I talked hard to get George inside. The officer told me he wanted to see Williams when he arrived.
Once inside the gate, I quickly found our pens. Our crew struggled to load the second of our wooden crates onto a Rawlings truck. It seemed unusually heavy. Two officers stood with Williams and Juno. I walked to the corner of the building and put my left hand out to stop George. Juno spoke freely to Williams and the officers. The man was not what he pretended to be.
I saw Williams look our way. He waved us over as Juno stepped away when the crate was hoisted to the top of the truck bed. Juno got into the truck, which Ralph drove. Ralph acknowledged me by brushing his left hand across his forehead in a mock salute. The truck pulled away.
I told Williams that the two officers who checked us when we entered the compound wanted to see him. He suggested we join him, moving toward the office instead of the pens. George and I waited outside while he went inside. When he left the squatty brown building, he smiled, “The men inside are not USDA officials but want to talk to the man in charge of the horses in transit.” His jovial mood pleased me because he was usually so serious.
“What do they want?”
Williams said that he did not know except that the agriculture official told me that they had called yesterday. I asked if he knew who the men were. He said that he did not.
We walked back to the pens and began our chores. George saw the sick mare for the first time. She looked worse to me but Williams said that the vets had looked at her and found nothing specifically wrong with her. Williams turned and moved to the next pen. George and I stood looking at the sick horse. An USDA inspector walked up behind us as we stood near her stall.
“Seth,” he addressed me. I turned to face a man in an official brown uniform.
“Yes, sir?”
“Has you seen the gov’nment report on your horses?”
“I have not seen any reports.”
“It’s this report that the gov’nment men want to talk to you about.”
He opened a manila folder and handed me a ‘Preliminary Report.' My eyes immediately blurred looking at the words.
“It saz several packets of heroin was found in the paddock after you’se disembarked. The gov’nment men wills speak to you ’bout the report.”
“Sir, I know you have to give the report to Williams but could you wait until I’ve talked to the government men?“The inspector looked puzzled.
“He may ’a seen it alrudy.”
“Isn’t heroin like morphine an approved drug for the treatment of pain?” I asked naively, hoping to make him think I was ignorant.
“Yes, but yur manifest dit’nt show you had the drug when you left Antwerp. So whur’d ya git it? That’s the question the gov’nment men are goin’ ask yaz.
With George listening, I tried to end the conversation. “I’d just appreciate it if you could wait a while to show the report to Williams.”
I reached down in front of my right boot toe to retrieve a penny. I picked it up and found it was a twenty dollar gold piece. I handed it to the inspector. “Did you drop this?”
“No.”
“Just keep it,” I said.
He thanked me, walked away smiling.
Williams and one of our men approached George and me. Discussion focused on the mare. It was clear by looking at her that her recovery was going to be lengthy. We decided that she would be sent to Indiana with the stallions instead of traveling with us. The plan was to ship the stallions to Indiana along with six of the mares that were in foal. The remainder of the horses would go with us when the circus left New York. Williams told me that I was to take a crew to Indiana and bring back the two hundred or so horses that wintered at the farm. He indicated that we should arrive back in New Jersey on April 25, one day before the New York run was completed. He said the Bridgeport horses would be on the train when all the road equipment came down. We would rent railcars in Indiana. We would wire ahead to make sure seven cars there.
Men worked around the quarantine pens all day, but I did not see any government men nor did I see Juno and Ralph. The shadows lengthened, and it was time for a shift change. Williams walked up to me.“Wonder what’s taking Ralph so long?” He was irritated.
“I’ve got to meet Mr. Rawlings before the evening performance.”
Just then, the shiny red truck rolled up. Ralph drove, but Juno had not returned with him. After a hushed conversation with Ralph, Williams spoke to a group of us.“Come on boys, let’s go to the city.”
Before we left the yard, I went into the squatty brown building as the truck and its passengers waited impatiently at the gate.
“Newman,” said an inspector, “some government guys called and said they’d catch up with you at your hotel.”
I got back on the truck and Ralph drove us into Manhattan. We walked into Madison Square Garden to watch rehearsals. Later, Wells told me that I could keep the advance money from Europe. With Williams and Wells beside me, Wells said, “Newman, another cable from Europe.”
I quickly reached for it and tore it open out of everyone’s eyeshot.
“My friend died,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” George said. I turned and walked away without any further comment.
The words on the crumpled yellow cable paper screamed at me: “Saw report. Major dope shipment was on Mercier. US suspects you. Watch yourself. MacDougall.” I folded the cable and put in my pocket with the cable from this morning. I paused and decided to send a cable to MacDougall.
“Sorry about your friend,” Williams said later.
“Yeah, thanks.”
As we left the Garden, I asked a policeman for directions to Western Union. The five-block walk gave me time to think. George was at my right sleeve. At Western Union, I wrote a cable:
“Bet LaFevre’s involved. Last saw him in Antwerp. Too many cables they’re getting suspicious. Send future cables to Thad Newman @Western Union, Muncie, Indiana. Seth.” The telegram cost me almost three dollars, but I wanted MacDougall to know I understood the situation.
George and I returned to the hotel as the drizzle turned into significant raindrops. From a telephone at the front desk, I called Thad. His tone was extremely sharp as I told him about the cables. He agreed to call me and read any new cables. I returned to the room to find George lying on the bed in his underwear. I stripped off my wet clothes. There was a heavy knock at the door. I straightened my undershirt as I opened the door to the width of the security chain. Seeing two men in dark suits wrapped in overcoats startled me.
“You, Newman?” the tall man on the right said.
“Yes?”
The other man, shorter and more stout, said, “We’re with the Bureau of Investigation,” flipping a badge from a wallet. “Can we talk to you?”
“Give me a minute to pull up my pants on.” The tall guy laughed.
“We’re not particular. We’ve talked to guys in their underwear before.”
They both laughed as I pushed the chain forward to release its hold on the door. Once inside, the taller man introduced himself as Sergeant Brown and the other fellow as Inspector Bosco.
I introduced George. Brown took off his overcoat, pulled a chair up, turned it backward, and straddled it. He spoke first as I finished pulling up my trousers. The other guy stood.“Sit down over here Mr. Newman,” Brown said.
I did as I was told and sat on the edge of the bed because the room’s only chair was already occupied.
“You are Seth Newman who was in charge of the Rawlings horses on the trip across on the Mercier?”
“Yes.”
They acted like they didn’t believe me.
“We understand that you saw the report on the heroin.”
“Yes,” I said. “One of the USDA inspectors showed it to me today.”
“You know where that opiate came from?”
I recounted the storm, the mare’s distress, and Juno’s injection, and his denial. I told them that I had no idea what he was injecting.” By this time the inspector had taken off both his top coat and suit coat revealing a holster strapped to his back.
“Sorry about the gun!”
“What type of gun is it?” George asked.
“It’s a thirty-eight, military model,” Sergeant Brown said, annoyed at the interruption.
“Made by Smith & Wesson in Springfield, Massachusetts, right? George said.
“I guess so,” Brown said. “Have any idea where this Juno fellow is?
“We saw him this afternoon at the pens before the truck brought us back to New York,” George answered.
“Ask Mr. Williams, or better yet ask the truck driver, Ralph,” I said. “But don’t tell him why you’re looking for Juno. I suspect Ralph is somehow involved, too.”
I felt comfortable with these guys and that prompted me to go further. “I would like you to find out if Ralph had my friend Haskins killed. No one around the circus seems to care that the case has never been solved. I think my friend Haskins found out something, and they got rid of him.”
“What makes you think so?” Brown said sarcastically.
I hesitated, thinking I had said too much.
“Go ahead,” Brown prompted.
“It’s the dope, isn’t it?” I said naively.
“Maybe, but why do you think that? What does this guy Juno look like?” Brown asked.
“Juno is a guy about five-foot-five, not more than one hundred and fifty pounds. He has wiry, curly black hair, and his black eyes dominate his face. I guess him to be thirty years old. He is Jewish, and I think, French or Belgian. I could never find out much about him because he acted like he didn’t speak English. That is why I don’t know what or why he injected the horse with drugs because he acted like he didn’t understand my questions. But this afternoon I saw him speaking English to Mr. Williams. Even though I was suspicious before, I knew for sure he was a liar. He is very muscular and strong. I know he is Jewish is because yesterday, when we went through immigration, they strip-searched him. He was shaken. I don’t know if the inspectors suspected something, or they were just hassling him. He was rattled and said that they did that because he was Jewish. I have something else you may want to see.”
I got up off the bed and walked over to a shirt hanging on a hook near the sink. I pulled two cables out of my pocket. I opened and flattened them and handed them to the Brown. He looked at the first one, then the second, handed them both to the inspector who read them, and handed them back to me.
“Whose MacDougall?” Brown asked.
“An inspector from Scotland Yard in London, but he works in Belgium.”
“How’d you come to know him?” Brown asked.
This question led to a string of other questions. Midway through the conversation the inspector said he was hungry.
“Get dressed and let’s get a bite to eat away from this place.”
I told them I thought it would be better if they went ahead because I didn’t know who we might run into in the lobby. They left first. George closed the door.
“Seth, should you be telling them so much? Do you think they believe you?” George made a good point but I told him I hoped that they would help me solve some of these mysteries. We entered the diner across the street and joined the two of them in a booth toward the back of the building. During supper I was somewhat more cautious about what I said. We talked mainly about Europe and the crossing. I told them about the trunks that Juno had with him.
“You find Juno, and I’ll bet you find what you are looking for,” I said as we parted. I also told them that we would be leaving for Indiana in a couple of days to pick up the horses. They agreed to contact me directly not through the Rawlings office.