V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History

THE PLOT AGAINST ROBERT H. GODDARD

SEPTEMBER 30, 1942

There was no moon in the predawn sky, no stars. Clouds lay thick above the eastern tip of Cape Cod. The only light penetrating the darkness of the Provincetown beach was the flashlight beam of a Coast Guard seaman.

Petty Officer Third Class Tom Hawkes let the light lazily swing back and forth. It was a cool night, the first taste of autumn mixing in with the salt air, but even in the wee hours of morning, there was always the chance of finding a couple of teenagers making out on the beach. Just last month, Hawkes had discovered some kids screwing in the dunes. His light had been on them for nearly a minute before they’d noticed, and ever since, he’d been hoping something like that would happen again.

No such luck. In fact, that had been the most exciting thing to happen to him since volunteering for Beach Patrol. Hawkes expected to be catching German saboteurs coming ashore, but after spending the last four months walking up and down the beach, just about all he’d found was driftwood, jellyfish, and pop bottles.

Tonight was different.

He was halfway to the breakwater when he spotted another flashlight beam. About sixty feet away, a spot of light appeared for a moment, shining, then vanished again. Shining at the water’s edge, it came and went so quickly Hawkes couldn’t tell which way it was aimed, down the beach or out across the water. Yet the radium dial of his wristwatch told him that it was nearly 4 A.M., not a likely hour for beachside lovers.

“Who goes there?” Hawkes called out, heading in the direction of the light. “Who is that?”

Silence, then a voice, male and with a thick Massachusetts accent, barely intelligible above the rumbling tide: “Who’s that?”

“Beach Patrol… and I asked you first.” The light came on again, its beam moving toward Hawkes; a second later, Hawkes located its source. A tall, slender man, just short of middle age, wearing oilskin waders, a denim trucker’s jacket, and a long-billed cap. There was something in his other hand, but Hawkes couldn’t tell what it was until he came closer: a long angler’s rod, the kind used for pier fishing.

“Just out to catch ’em when they start biting.” The fisherman bent over a tackle box that lay open on the beach beside him. “How’s it going tonight? See anything interesting?”

“Only you, mister.” Hawkes relaxed but didn’t switch off his flashlight. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you out here before. You local?”

“Me? Naw. Just come down from Boston for a week.” The older man pulled a reel from the box. “Couldn’t catch anything from the pier except garbage fish, so I decided to come out here instead.”

“Yeah, guess that makes sense.” Hawkes glanced in the direction of town; its lights were over a mile away, with the municipal pier on the other side of the point. This part of the beach was uninhabited except for the one-room shacks rented to artists and summer vacationers; most of them were deserted now that the season was over, but it was possible that one or two might still be used by someone taking an autumn break from the city.

“Hope so.” The Bostonian chuckled as he stood up to attach the reel to his rod, then he bent over again to pick up a roll of high-test line and a fishing knife. He fumbled a bit as he tried to hold them in his hands along with his flashlight. “Hey, since you’re here, mind giving me a hand?”

“Sure.” Hawkes came closer, within arm’s reach. “What do you want me to do?”

“Hold your light on me while I put the line on.” The older man switched off his flashlight, stuck it in his jacket pocket. “Shine it so I can see what I’m doing, okay?”

“No problem.” Hawkes turned his flashlight downward, away from the fisherman’s face. Its beam found the roll of fishing line in his left hand, but the hand holding the knife vanished the moment the light touched its serrated blade. Hawkes barely had time to wonder what the fisherman was doing when he felt a sudden, sharp pain at his neck just below his Adam’s apple, and that was when he realized that his throat had been cut.

William Meriwell quickly stepped back, avoiding the blood that jetted from the seaman’s severed jugular vein. The Coast Guard patrolman staggered forward a step or two, gagging, his hands desperately clutching his neck. Meriwell kicked away the flashlight he’d dropped, then silently watched as the young seaman collapsed face-first upon the wet sand, his white cap falling off his head to be immediately snatched away by the surf. He tried to crawl forward, but it wasn’t long before he stopped moving and lay still.

Meriwell slowly let out his breath. His heart hammered at his chest, and he had an impulse to throw his fishing knife out into the water. He hadn’t wanted to kill the other man, but the moment the sailor spotted him, he knew that he had no choice. The kid had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, simple as that. No one could be allowed to witness what was about to happen next.

Pulling out his flashlight again, Meriwell quickly checked his watch. Exactly 0400. He switched off the light, aimed it out into the water, then flashed it three times. He couldn’t see anything in the moonless night, but if everything was going according to schedule, a U-boat had just surfaced about a mile offshore.

While he waited for a response, Meriwell picked up the dead sailor by his arms and, walking backward, dragged him across the beach into the dunes. He wished he had a shovel, but that couldn’t be helped; he’d just have to hope that no one found the body for a while. He went back to the beach, found the sailor’s flashlight, switched it off, and threw it into the water, then made himself busy by kicking sand over the trail he’d left. Meriwell had just finished his task when he heard a soft crunch behind him and turned around to see an inflatable dinghy coming ashore.

Its sole occupant was a man in a dark suit, overcoat, and fedora. He pulled in his paddle and waited for Meriwell to wade out into the shallow water and haul the dinghy the rest of the way in. “Guten Morgen, Herr Schmidt,” Meriwell said quietly as he took hold of the painter. “Ich hoffe, Sie hatten eine guten…”

“Shut up,” Schmidt hissed. “You are never to speak to me in German. And my name is Smith, not Schmidt.” His English was perfect, with no trace of a European accent.

“Sorry.” Meriwell grunted as he hauled the dinghy the rest of the way to the beach. Once it was out of the surf, Schmidt—or Smith, as the Abwehr agent preferred to be known—stood up and stepped out, his trouser cuffs and dress shoes remaining dry. He turned around to retrieve a briefcase from the back of the boat, then looked around.

“Are we alone?” Schmidt asked. “Has there been any trouble?”

“Unfortunately, I was discovered by a Coast Guard sailor patrolling the beach.” Meriwell produced his fishing knife again and thrust it into the dinghy’s rubber side. With a soft pop and a quiet hiss, the boat began to deflate. “I killed him. His body is in the dunes over there.”

“Damn it.” Schmidt’s voice was an angry growl. “And, of course, you neglected to bury him, didn’t you?”

“I don’t have a shovel, so…”

“Never mind. Where’s your car?”

“Parked just off the beach road, about a hundred feet from here.”

“Bring the boat and paddle. If we take them with us, maybe the police will figure that the sailor was killed for some other reason.” Schmidt bent over to pick up the paddle, leaving the deflated dinghy for the American fifth columnist to carry. “Now hurry.”

It took only a few minutes for the two men to reach the Chrysler sedan parked on the shoulder of a nearby dirt road. Meriwell shoved the boat and paddle into the backseat as Schmidt climbed into the front passenger seat; when he started the car, he was careful not to switch on the headlights, instead relying on memory and night vision to turn around and drive slowly away from the beach. The headlights didn’t come on until the car was on the narrow blacktop that went out to the tip of the Cape. Only a few houses and a small inn lay at this end of Provincetown, and their windows were dark. No one saw the car as it left town.

“How far is Worcester from here?” Schmidt asked.

“About two hundred miles,” Meriwell replied. “We can get you there in about five hours.”

The German agent pulled back his shirtsleeve, checked the luminescent dial of his American-made watch—4:05 A.M. If his contact was right, they’d arrive in Worcester shortly after nine o’clock. “Very good. And you’ve located Dr. Goddard’s home and studied his habits?”

“Oh, yes.” A grim smile appeared on Meriwell’s face. “I’ve been watching him for about two weeks now. The best place to find him won’t be at his house, though. It’ll probably be on campus, where he…”

“Let me make that determination.” Schmidt’s briefcase rested across his knees; he tapped his fingers against it as he gazed out the window. “Just get me there. I’ll do the rest.”

“Bob? Esther’s got the car started. She’s waiting for us.”

“Oh, for God’s sake…” Tugging on his raincoat, Robert Goddard hurried downstairs to his living room. He glared at Hillman, who stood patiently waiting for him at the front door. “Max, you’re almost as bad as she is. Are you two working together to make my life miserable?”

“You got it, Doctor G.” The young corporal grinned as he held out his hat and umbrella. “She’s already taken your briefcase out to the car.”

“Like I’d forget that,” Goddard grumbled, and Hillman refrained from reminding him that he probably would. Over the past few months that Max had resided with the Goddards, living in their guest room and sharing most of his meals with them, he’d become less a military attaché and more like a family member, even a surrogate son. And if there was one thing Hillman had learned about Professor Goddard, it was that the old man was absentminded as hell.

A cold, slobbering rain was falling outside, bringing down a few more of the leaves turning color with the coming of autumn. Esther’s car stood in the driveway, headlights on, windshield wiper clattering back and forth. Goddard didn’t bother to open his umbrella, though, but instead pulled up his overcoat collar and put on his hat before he left the front porch and marched down the steps, Hillman behind him. Just as they were about to turn toward the car, though, Goddard noticed the neighborhood mailman coming up the front walk.

“Hold on a second,” he said to Hillman, then walked over to the mailman. “Morning, Joe. Got anything for me?”

“Sure thing, Professor. Here ya go.” The mailman reached into his shoulder bag, pulled out several letters, and handed them to Goddard. “Beautiful weather we’re having, ain’t it?”

“Lovely.” Goddard tucked the mail into his inside coat pocket. “Think I’ll go for a swim.” Joe laughed and turned away, and Goddard hurried to the car, where Hillman was already holding the door open for him.

“One day,” Esther said, as her husband climbed in beside her, “you’re going to surprise everyone by getting to work on time. We’ll have a parade and everything. Fireworks, balloons, circus clowns…”

“Oh, be quiet and drive. And for the record, I’m never late. Everyone else just gets there early, that’s all.”

Hillman laughed out loud from the backseat, and Esther gave him a wink in the rearview mirror as she backed out of the driveway. As she drove away from the house, she didn’t notice the Chrysler sedan parked a short distance up Tallawanda Drive, or that it pulled away from the curb and began to follow them.

“Who is the man riding with them?” Schmidt asked.

“Some kind of assistant. Maybe a bodyguard.” Meriwell drove crouched over the steering wheel, peering through the heavy rain that the windshield wiper couldn’t quite slap away. “He’s living with them, that’s all I know.”

“Is he always with Dr. Goddard?” Schmidt asked, and Meriwell shook his head. “Then he’s not a bodyguard. This is good.”

Meriwell glanced at the gun in Schmidt’s lap. The Abwehr agent had removed the Walther PPK from his briefcase en route from the Cape. It was now loaded, a black silencer fitted against its barrel, and Schmidt had pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves.

“I could pull up alongside them,” Meriwell suggested. “From your side of the car, you could get all three.”

Schmidt gave him a sharp look. “My orders don’t include his wife or friends,” he said, an angry edge in his voice. “If I don’t need to eliminate them, then I won’t. Is there ever a time when he’s alone?”

Meriwell thought about it a moment. “He sometimes steps out for a smoke. I guess they won’t let him do that in the lab, ’cause he comes out three or four times a day.”

“Is he usually by himself when he steps out?” Schmidt asked. Meriwell nodded. “And is the lab near the street?” Meriwell nodded again. “Very good. Then we’ll park nearby and wait for our chance.”

Esther pulled over on Maywood Street. Goddard opened his door, stuck his umbrella outside and opened it, then reached down to pick up his briefcase. “So you’re coming back after you’re done with the shopping?” he asked Hillman, who made no move to get out of the car.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Esther smiled at him. “I won’t borrow Max for very long. I just want to have him carry the groceries to the car. You know how I hate doing that when it’s coming down like this.”

“My dear, you’ve become spoiled from all those years living in the desert. So much as a drizzle, and you think it’s a downpour.” Goddard gave his wife a mock scowl. “Just bring him back when you’re done… and no fooling around!”

“Oh, no.” Esther glanced back at Hillman. “We’re in trouble now. He knows about our affair.”

The corporal’s face went red as the Goddards shared a laugh at his expense. Over the past few months, a running joke had developed among the three of them: Esther had taken Max as her secret lover, and Bob was blissfully ignorant of the whole thing. Nothing of the sort was going on, of course, but Bob and Esther had learned how to embarrass their houseguest with this little jest.

“See you later,” Goddard said, then he climbed out, slamming the door shut behind him. The side door of the Science Building, which led straight to his lab, was only twenty feet from the street; he’d reached it even before Esther had driven out of sight. Pausing beneath the awning to shake out his umbrella and close it, Goddard paid no attention to the sedan that drove past the Science Building, turned around in a driveway across the street, then came back to park on the other side of Maywood.

As usual, the 390 Group was already there, but Goddard noticed at once that a few members were missing. Henry Morse wasn’t in the room, and neither was Hamilton Ballou or Michael Ferris. Jack Cube and Colonel Bliss were absent, of course; they were still in New Mexico. Frank O’Connor was in his usual place, perched on a stool near the door and reading the morning paper.

“Where are the others?” Goddard asked as he added his umbrella to the collection propped against the wall beside the door.

“Mike and Ham went out to fetch coffee and doughnuts,” Harry Chung said, barely looking up from the electrical wiring diagrams he and Taylor had laid out across the bench. “I don’t know where Henry is.”

“Library,” Gerry Mander said. There was a sly smile on his face as he fixed his attention on the chemical reference he was studying. “Again.”

“Hmm… well, yes, I suppose.” Goddard had noticed that Henry was spending an unusual amount of time at the campus library. Most of his visits were necessary, of course—the team constantly needed to find some piece of information for their work—but lately it seemed that he was beginning his day there before coming to work at the lab. He caught the look that quickly passed between Gerry, Taylor, and Ham. If they were sharing a secret, they could have it. Probably none of his business anyway.

“Well, now that you’re here…” O’Connor folded his newspaper, hopped off the stool. “’Cuse me, gents. Need to visit the little boys’ room.”

Goddard stepped aside to let the FBI agent pass; O’Connor left the lab, shutting the door behind him. Goddard was about to take off his overcoat when his hand brushed against the mail he’d brought with him from home. It was still in the coat’s inside pocket. Esther usually took care of the bills, but there was no sense leaving the mail in his coat where it might fall out and get lost. Goddard removed the letters from his pocket and was about to transfer them to his briefcase when his eye fell on the top one. The return address was the City of Worcester, Office of Tax Assessment, and stamped in red ink across the bottom of the envelope was URGENT—OPEN IMMEDIATELY!

“Hello?” he murmured, then dropped the rest of the mail on a nearby table and tore open the envelope. No one paid any attention as he skimmed the letter inside, then…

“Oh, damn it to hell!”

Everyone jumped. “Bob?” Taylor asked. “What’s going on?”

Goddard continued to stare at the letter even as he slammed a fist down on the table. “The damn city claims we haven’t paid our property taxes for this year!” he snapped. “Now they’re planning to fine us ten dollars a day until we cough up!”

Harry was baffled. “You haven’t paid your taxes? But…”

“Of course I paid my taxes. I’ve been doing that every year since we moved to New Mexico. In fact, I made sure that…” Goddard stopped suddenly. He appeared to be lost in thought for a moment, then he closed his eyes. “I know what happened. I made arrangements with my bank here to pay my local taxes while I was gone, but when we moved back, I told them that was no longer necessary. And then…”

“You forgot to pay the taxes yourself?” Harry asked.

Goddard nodded. “The bank probably continued receiving my tax bills, but someone didn’t forward them to Esther and me. And now…”

Not bothering to pick up his umbrella, Goddard turned to the door. “Look, I’ve got to take care of this right now. I’ll be back soon.”

Before anyone had a chance to say anything, he was gone.

“Look!” Meriwell pointed through the windshield. “There he is!”

Just minutes after he’d entered the Science Building, Goddard came out again. Yet it was obvious that he wasn’t stepping out for a smoke. Instead of lingering beneath the awning, he hurried to the sidewalk and began walking swiftly down Maywood, heading toward Main Street less than a block away.

Schmidt was out of the car in a second, but he took his time crossing the street. Nothing attracts attention more quickly than a running man, and Goddard was moving fast enough already. If anyone happened to look out a window of the Science Building or any other nearby university building, they couldn’t help but spot one person chasing another. So Schmidt strolled after Goddard, keeping him in sight while gradually closing the distance between them, taking care not to make his presence obvious.

His overcoat was buttoned shut, but its right pocket had a hidden slit inside, big enough for him to put his hand and wrist through. In this way, he was able to carry his silenced Walther without its being seen. One he was close enough to Goddard and no one else was in sight, all he’d have to do was pull out the gun, take aim at the back of the scientist’s head, and fire. The silencer wouldn’t completely eliminate the sound of his gunshot, but it would muffle it enough that it wouldn’t be heard by anyone nearby.

Then he’d simply drop the gun and walk away, again making sure that he didn’t draw attention by running. He’d made sure never to handle the gun, its silencer, or bullets without wearing gloves. All the police would find would be a body, the murder weapon lying alongside it, with no fingerprints, witnesses, suspects, or apparent motives. A clean kill.

After that, Schmidt would have Meriwell drive him to the extraction point on the northern Maine coast, where the same U-boat that had brought him to America was scheduled to pick him up in two days. Unless someone connected Goddard’s murder with the death of a Beach Patrol officer the same day, there would be nothing to indicate that it had been an Abwehr assassination… at least long enough for Schmidt to make good his escape.

As Schmidt approached Goddard, though, he realized that killing him wouldn’t be quite so easy. He’d had already reached Main Street, where a streetcar was rapidly approaching. A couple of other people were already waiting at the corner trolley stop. Goddard joined them as the streetcar glided to a halt, and the three of them climbed aboard while Schmidt was still more than twenty feet away.

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?”