Thunder and lightning, Murphy thought in Gaelic, rocking on his numb feet, clapping his hands together. Let’s get on with it, you damn spies!
How he wanted nothing more than to be back in his two-bedroom apartment on the East Side with his wife, Megan, and son, Padraig. Sitting before the fireplace. Sipping a whisky. And reading the book he’d started last night. A murder mystery—he loved them. It was The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie. Murphy was determined to figure out the villain’s identity before the detective.
His hands grew even more numb. If it came down to it—and he knew it would—could he pull out the .45 and shoot accurately? Yeah, he could. He’d master any muscle spasms. Traitors to their country had to pay.
Finally, at long last, the spies were now leaving with the oh-so-precious cargo.
Murphy couldn’t move in yet, though. He needed to find if they had accomplices. He staggered back to where his Ford Super Deluxe, dark red, was parked. It was the latest model available, ’42. Ford had stopped production of consumer cars that year, shifting to military vehicles, but had produced a few Super Deluxes. Murphy had managed to find one of the elegant coupes.
He climbed in and started the engine, which purred. He engaged the three-speed transmission and clicked on the radio. It was set to Mutual Broadcasting, one of his favorite stations—he and the family would tune in regularly to listen to The Adventures of Superman, The Return of Nick Carter, and his favorite, The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. But now he wanted to hear the news about the war, so as he eased forward he used the car’s floor button to change the channels to find a station he wanted.
As Detroit’s diligent heater poured blessed warm air over him, Murphy crept along, several car lengths behind the truck as it made its way into the heart of Greenwich Village. Finally, it turned onto Bleecker Street, then into an alley behind Cracco’s Bakery.
Murphy continued past the alley and around the corner. He parked the Ford down the street and slipped into the alley behind the bakery, where the truck was idling.
The tall blond man—German, of course—stepped out and took a look around. A shorter round man—Italian, Cracco undoubtedly—joined him. With much effort they managed to unload the crate and get it through the back door of the shop. The German stepped out, holding a pistol, and regarded the alley closely. Murphy backed out of sight. Then the OSS agent heard the doors slam and the truck’s gears engage. A fast glance and he watched the Chevrolet leave. Murphy wasn’t concerned; he doubted the two men were going far. Probably just to park the truck.
He waited several minutes, then looked again. The alley was empty. He slipped to the back door of the bakery. Peering through the window, he could see the kitchen. It was dark, as was the rest of the place. He picked the lock and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He squinted against the dimness, noting the ovens, the trays, the pots. And he inhaled the comforting smell of yeast and fresh bread (thinking again of his wife, who baked every Sunday). The front of the shop was empty and dark, too.
Who are you, Signor Cracco? And why are you doing this? Is it patriotism, is it money, is it revenge?
No matter. Motives were irrelevant to Jack Murphy. If you were an enemy, for whatever reason, you had to pay the price.
He walked silently over the concrete floor to the crate. The top had been pried open and he lifted it, shone the flashlight inside. Well, yes, it was what he’d expected: quite a special delivery, indeed.
Saints preserve us!
He looked around and found a chair in the corner of the kitchen. He sat down and drew the pistol from his pocket. Sooner or later, the German and the Italian would return, possibly with accomplices. And Jack Murphy would be ready for them. The smell of yeast wafted over him once more. He was hungry. Soon he’d be back with Megan and Paddy and they—
“You!”
Murphy gasped as the voice hissed from behind him, close to his ear: “You, don’t move!” Italian accent. It would be Cracco. The man had been hiding in a pantry. A pantry Murphy hadn’t bothered to check. A gun barrel tapped the back of his head.
Murphy’s heart slamming fiercely, breathing fast. So both men hadn’t left. Only the German. Perhaps they suspected they’d been followed and had arranged this trap.
Jesus and Mary, he thought.
Cracco snatched the Colt from Murphy’s hand.
He started to turn, but the Italian ordered, “No.”
Murphy thought: He doesn’t want to watch my face when he shoots me. He heard the pistol in the spy’s hand click twice as he cocked it.
The OSS agent closed his eyes and chose the Lord’s Prayer for his last.