Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(73)
When he finished the call, he placed his palms on his desk and, with a sighed exhalation said, “The victim is Moishe Klein– or Morris Keller, if you will.”
Duke’s and Goldman’s simultaneous exhalations were much more audible, more like out-of-control gorilla grunts.
Immediately, Goldman jumped ahead and asked, “Do we know if the room was in Romy’s name?”
The pious rabbi’s response was a wry smile. “We’re talking a racketeers’ paradise. Names are never asked for. Only money.”
“If Romy murdered him, then she is on the run,” Goldman said. “But I cannot see her running back into the fray.”
“She would snag the first boat out,” Duke muttered, thinking rapidly, “bound for as close as she could get to Ireland.” His youthful years aboard the tramp steamer were unwillingly recalled. He had thought life with his old man had been punishing. “Tankers? Barges? Cargo ships? Unlikely, maybe, but could you try them, Harold?”
The rabbi tugged at his short beard, giving it some thought. “I’ll put in a call to a friend at the Port Authorities.” A few minutes later, he replaced the receiver and said, “Bingo. You were right, Duke. She shipped out this morning on a freighter bound for Rotterdam.”
“But, of course.” Goldman said, nodding, as if it all made sense. “Across the channel from the British Isles.”
Harold propped his elbows on the desktop and stared over his interlocked hands with a reassuring smile. “Our Romy Sonnenschein appears to be one of those blessed souls who are resourceful and resilient. I think our concerns about her are needless.” He eyed Duke. “Unless, you feel differently, son.”
Son. All his childhood, Duke had yearned to hear those words spoken with that warm resonance from his father. But, at least, he was hearing it from the rabbi. Duke leaned forward. “Can you wrangle a flight to Rotterdam for me, Harold – at a bedrock fare?”
“Count me in,” Goldman said.
The rabbi smiled benevolently. “Well, now, flying free beats bedrock for you two, I would say – and I do have contacts at Ellington Air Force Base in Houston.”
Duke wondered if he would ever get shed of the smooth and smarmy Germany attorney. Hell, Goldman by right of time might lay claim to Romy’s affections, but, by God, Duke laid claim to her passion. And he knew he was the better man.
Or, at least, Charlotte did. The sweet image of her, peering at him over her eyeglasses, nettled him, and he knew the day was coming when he would have to stop straddling the fence. Other tried and true men were waiting in line to ply their suit.
Well, first things first.
§ § §
Quaint Dutch streets beneath Vermeer-like skies.
Rotterdam had not changed that much since those months, years before, when Romy and Old Duke had encamped there with other Romani. Nestled in a lovely riverside setting with a lively cultural life, the city was Europe’s largest port, known as the Gateway to the World.
Not only was it the Gateway to the World, it was also the world’s largest spy center because of its Dutch neutrality and its strategic location, situated as it was with Great-Britain and Germany on either side of it. German secret agents operating from Rotterdam competed with Britain’s M16, which had established its main European office on Rotterdam’s de Boompjes.
For her, the Netherlands might mean the netherworld. Nazi scientists would dearly love to have access to her Gypsy genetics in order to complete their medical experimentations with her and her twin, but she felt safe enough if she stayed this side of the Grebbe Line, the latest of the Dutch Water Lines built to inundate the borders against attack by the Netherland’s Nazi neighbor.
She had debarked too late to catch the morning’s Rotterdam ferry to England’s Port of Harwich, giving her yet another day to while away. It was Sunday, and the Mauritshuis Museum would be closed. It had been at the art museum, a twenty-minute train ride to The Hague, that she had seen Vermeer’s “Girl With a Pearl Earring.”
A few questions, and Romy got directions to the nearest zigeuner, a gypsy caravan site only a few miles out of town, and within walking distance. Mayhap, with a thimble of luck, she could find a Romani’s spare straw mattress upon which to spend the night.
The day was overcast and misty with occasional sprinkles. By the time she reached the encampment, the rain was falling steadily. And she, crikey, without an umbrella!
She should not have been surprised to find the place overrun with Gypsy refugees from Poland and Germany, but she was surprised to find someone from her past among them.
At the sound of her name yelled out, she turned from the main path through the muddy encampment to watch Giorgio slosh in the muck toward her. He wore raggedy trousers and a dirty, voluminous-sleeved shirt with no other protection against the chilly rain.
Her former betrothed was thinner than she remembered and had the harrowed look of one facing an executioner’s block, but his swarthy face was still handsome despite its gauntness. His raven’s hair fell lankly upon bony shoulders. He yanked out the hand-rolled brown cigarette that drooped from the corner of his mouth, bracketed by crater-deep lines. “I can’t believe it’s you, Romy!”
She threw her arms around him. “Giorgio!” He was not as tall as Duke, but then few were. “What devilry brings ye to Rotterdam?”
He stepped away. “The filthy Nazis, but, of course. After the SS raided our camp at Marzahn, I stayed just one step ahead of them, always on the run – until I met Zelda. In her family’s barn, where I was hiding.”