The assassin didn’t try to board the streetcar as well. Running for it would have made him obvious. Instead, he turned and raised his hand to wave to the car. Meriwell had been watching the entire scene; seconds later, he pulled up alongside Schmidt.
“Follow the streetcar until he gets off,” Schmidt said as he climbed in. “Don’t let it out of your sight.”
O’Connor returned to the lab. He was about to pick up his newspaper when he noticed that someone was missing. “Where’s the professor?” he asked.
Harry glanced up from the blueprints. “Had to go out. Got a letter from the city, saying he hadn’t paid his taxes. He…”
“Oh, for the love of…! And you let him go?”
Gerry snorted. “Taxes, Frankie. You can’t fight City Hall.” He shook his head and grinned. “But you catch up with him, maybe you can help Bob try.”
Muttering obscenities, O’Connor grabbed his raincoat and dashed out of the lab. Goddard was nowhere in sight, but the agent’s car was parked in the lot across the street. He headed for it, still swearing at the irresponsible eggheads he’d been assigned to nursemaid.
The clock tower upon Worcester City Hall’s gabled rooftop was ringing the ten o’clock hour when the streetcar came to a halt out front. Goddard was among those who got off. Still angry at the letter he’d just received, he marched across the sidewalk to the ground-floor entrance, located beneath a circular stone staircase leading up to the second-floor main entrance. Finding that it was a locked fire door, the professor swore under his breath, then headed for the staircase.
It was a minor detour, but it gave Schmidt a chance to catch up. Meriwell had pulled over to the curb just as Goddard was about to walk the stairs. Climbing out of the car, Schmidt quickly strode across the sidewalk, yet Goddard had already opened the door by the time the Abwehr killer reached the stairs, forcing Schmidt to dash up the steps behind him. Goddard didn’t notice Schmidt, though, as he walked into the building, letting the door slam shut behind him.
Schmidt might have lost another opportunity were it not for a stroke of luck. On the other side of the front door was a small entrance foyer, with a second door leading to the main lobby. The interior door was old, with a rusting iron knob that had a tendency to stick. As Schmidt came through the front door, he discovered that Goddard was still struggling to open the foyer door.
The foyer was dimly lit. Only Goddard and Schmidt were in there, and Goddard still hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t alone. Careful not to let the front door slam shut, Schmidt pulled the Walther from his overcoat. He’d only started to raise it, though, when Goddard finally managed to yank open the foyer door. Cursing beneath his breath, Goddard barged in, still unaware that he was being followed.
The main lobby was grandiose, designed in the overwrought style of the last century. Tall Corinthian columns supported a high ceiling above a black-and-white-tiled floor, and a broad marble staircase with an iron banister led upward to the mayor’s office and the council chamber. The lobby was vacant except for the two men who’d just come in, and as Goddard paused to figure out where the tax assessor’s office was located, Schmidt came in for the kill.
It was at this moment that Worcester police sergeant Clay Reilly came downstairs from the mayor’s office, which he’d just visited to drop off some departmental paperwork. He’d just reached the landing and had turned to trot the rest of the way down when he spotted something incredible: in the lobby just below, a man with a long-barreled handgun was coming up behind another, older man.
It was obvious what was about to happen. Reilly’s reflexes were quick. Snatching his service revolver from his holster, he took aim at the would-be killer.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Drop it!”
Goddard stopped, looked around in confusion, not knowing where Reilly’s voice was coming from. Schmidt didn’t share his bewilderment. Seeing the police officer on the stairs above him, he whipped around and started to raise his gun.
Sergeant Reilly was a crack shot, one of the WPD’s best, and in that second the long hours he’d spent on the practice range paid off. Schmidt’s finger hadn’t even tightened on the Walther’s trigger when Reilly fired his Smith & Wesson.
The first shot hit Schmidt in the stomach, the second in the chest. His gun fell to the marble floor a moment before he did.
Goddard was standing only a few feet away as the killer collapsed behind him. The professor was still staring at the blood seeping from beneath the stranger’s body when the foyer door slammed open, then someone ran up behind him and grabbed his arm.
“Doc, are you all right?” O’Connor demanded.
Dazed, Goddard looked around to see the FBI agent. “Yes… yes, I’m… I’m fine, but…” He pointed to the body. “Who is this man? Why did… was he trying to…?”
“I don’t know. Damn it, Professor, why couldn’t you have…?” O’Connor shook his head as he tugged on Goddard’s arm. “Never mind. Let’s just get you out of here.”
By then, Sergeant Reilly had come the rest of the way downstairs. Kicking the Walther PPK away, he knelt beside Schmidt and felt the side of his neck to make sure that he was dead. Drawn by the gunshots, office workers were emerging from nearby doorways. Cautiously entering the lobby, they stared in horror and curiosity at the dead man and the police officer who’d just shot him.
Someone stepped in front of Goddard just as O’Reilly, still crouched beside the body, was starting to look for him. O’Connor took the opportunity to turn Goddard around and propel him through the crowd to the foyer.
“Aren’t we staying?” Goddard asked, as O’Connor pushed him through the front door and out into the rain.
“You can’t get mixed up in this.” Hand still wrapped around his arm, O’Connor led him down the wet granite steps. “The fewer questions you answer, the better. With any luck, no one back there recognized you.”
O’Connor’s car was still parked at the curb. The sedan that had followed Goddard downtown was already gone. When Meriwell had heard the dull gunshots from inside City Hall, he’d realized at once that they couldn’t have come from Schmidt’s silenced weapon. Meriwell knew instantly that something had gone wrong and that he’d better make himself scarce. As happenstance would have it, he’d driven away just as O’Connor showed up, giving the agent a convenient place to park.
“Yes, yes, I understand, but…” Goddard’s eyes were wide behind his glasses, his face pale. “Why was that man trying to kill me?”
O’Connor said nothing, nor did he need to. As the G-man’s car sped away from City Hall, Goddard arrived at the only possible answer.
“Oh, my,” he murmured. “This changes everything, doesn’t it?”
THE MONOMONAC GUN AND ROD CLUB
OCTOBER 2, 1942
A panel truck and three sedans drove down a wooded country lane near the town of Rindge, New Hampshire, until they reached an unmarked road. Turning right, the procession slowed to a crawl as it moved down the narrow, rutted trail. The man at the wheel of the truck was the only one who knew where they were going; he drove with a hand-drawn map open in his lap, occasionally glancing down to check their route. He was sure that he’d understood the directions he’d been given, but it wasn’t until he caught a glimpse of blue water that he knew for sure he wasn’t leading everyone the wrong way.
Passing a rusted PRIVATE PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING sign nailed to a tree, the vehicles arrived at their destination, a two-story hunting lodge on the shore of the nearby lake. The truck brakes squealed; one by one, the sedans following the van came to a halt. Doors swung open, and passengers climbed out.