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FENDER BENDER
"What is this car doing here?" The stocky, grey-haired, mustached man seethed with rage as he stormed from his dented vehicle toward the bright yellow sports car and its thoroughly embarrassed driver. He glared at the young woman behind the wheel. "Heads will roll!' he muttered under his breath.
Jeannie Stone slid down in the seat of the yellow Porsche - Steve Keller's yellow Porsche - and wished she were anywhere but here on this street corner. Steve had been kind enough to lend her his sports car, his pride and joy, while her Ford Pinto was in the shop for a tune-up. She'd promised to take good care of the little (and very expensive) sports car and now this! What would Steve say? That car was his baby! And how was she going to explain this to her father, Lt. Mike Stone, Steve's partner? She slid even farther down in the seat and prayed to become invisible.
Too late! The irate man leaned over the side of her car, waving his fist in outrage. "Do you think this is the Autobahn! Bah! This is no way to treat a visitor to your city. I will have you thrown in the cooler, sent to the Russian front . . ." His tirade reached epic proportions. So did the traffic jam building up behind them. Horns honked, drivers yelled, a police siren could be heard in the distance.
Jeannie wanted to disappear.
o-o-o-o-o
"Inspectors 8-1 to Central," Mike Stone growled. "We're stuck in a traffic jam on Fulton, not too far from USF. What's going on?"
"Small fender-bender, Inspectors 8-1. Looks like an altercation between the drivers involved. Will you respond?"
"Responding," Mike sighed as he tossed the red patrol beacon on the roof of the brown Galaxie. "Sounds like you'd better send a couple of tow trucks, too."
"Bet you never expected to become a traffic cop at your age," his younger partner smirked.
"You can direct traffic, Buddy Boy," the senior officer responded. "I'll deal with those two hot-headed drivers." He rubbed his forehead for a moment, then thought out loud, "Say, wasn't Jeannie heading down to USF this morning?"
"And in my Porsche!" Keller finished the thought. He increased the volume on the siren to maximum.
o-o-o-o-o
Mike's heart nearly stopped when he saw the bright yellow sports car pulled over to the curb, a forlorn Jeannie behind the wheel. At least she appeared unharmed. That was more than he could say about Steve's pride and joy: front passenger side crumbled, headlight cracked and broken, battered fender. The other driver must have run a red light to cause that much damage.
And that other driver! The angry man had one hand on the driver's side door, his other hand clenched into a fist.
"You handle the other driver," Stone instructed his partner. "I'll take care of Jeannie." He vaulted from the SFPD vehicle and ran toward his daughter. Something about the guy bothered the veteran cop, an old memory from his assignment as a JAG investigator in Germany just after the war. He wanted fingerprints.
"Steve Keller, SFPD," the inspector introduced himself as he flashed his badge at the red-faced driver. "Step over here with me so I can get your description of the accident." He'd kept his voice calm, although the sight of his car-and more, the distraught Jeannie-made him want to deck the guy.
The man pulled out a license. "Walter Heiler. I'm a dealer in fine art. This car is a rental! Is this how you treat visitors to your city? Bah!"
"You have insurance with the rental agency?"
"Of course. Do you think I'm an idiot? American drivers! And that one" - he pointed at Jeannie - "her license should be revoked. She could have killed me! Throw her in the cooler!" The man barked orders like a Gestapo officer.
A quick look at both cars convinced Steve that this Heiler, whoever he was, was at fault. He decided to say nothing further, merely asked the ranting visitor for his address and phone number while in The City. "A tow truck will take your car back to the agency; you'll follow in a cab. I'll ask the driver to send a voucher to SFPD. The agency will inspect the car and file an accident report. You'll be visiting for a while?"
"Two more days. Then I have business elsewhere. You will report your findings to me." It sounded like an order. A muttered curse in German, something sounding suspiciously like "clink," and the man stormed to the waiting cab.
As soon as Keller and the man moved away, Mike helped a shaken Jeannie out of the car. "Don't touch the door," the detective whispered softly. He hugged his daughter, murmuring, "You're not hurt?"
"Just scared and angry," she replied as she blinked back tears. "That man came out of nowhere! He hit me! And it's not even my car - it's Steve's. He'll be furious!"
"At that guy, Sweetheart, not you. From the looks of the damage, he's at fault. Now, let's go to headquarters and have some coffee while I get your statement."
"Jeannie! You OK?" Steve's concern showed in his voice as in turn he hugged the young woman. "Don't worry about the car," he reassured her. "You're the important one. That guy Heiler is a real jerk. " He was rewarded with a smile.
"You know, Buddy Boy," Mike thought out loud, "Something bothers me about that man. Have your car towed over to the forensics lot. Heiler, whoever he really is, left fingerprints on the driver's side door. Check them out and then meet Jeannie and me at the office. I want to get a sketch made.
o-o-o-o-o
"OK, Sweetheart," Mike's voice was gentle as he handed Jeannie a cup of coffee, "Is there anything you can tell me about Heiler, besides his bad driving?
"He had a German accent, but you know that already. He threatened to throw me in the cooler and kept saying 'Heads will roll,' like he was playing a German officer in an old movie. Oh, and he said something about the clink."
"Clink, clink," Mike muttered. Sudden recognition hit him. "Not clink as in jail. Klink with a K. Kommandant Klink!" He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Is it possible? Not Walter Heiler. Wolfgang Hochstetter!"
"Hochstetter?" Keller, back from forensics, broke in.
"Former Gestapo officer in charge of the area around a small Luftstalag near Hammelburg. I questioned him, but he got away from us. If that's him, it means trouble.
o-o-o-o-o
Wolfgang Hochstetter, alias Walter Heiler among others, threw his clothes into a traveling bag and rifled through a collection of passports and drivers licenses. He finally settled on one for Albert Brenner. It would only require a few small alterations in his appearance. He shaved off his mustache and added a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. He was now a high school physics teacher from Chicago; he'd become someone else in a few days. He thought the older cop looked vaguely familiar. The last thing he needed was to be recognized. His plans were too close to fruition.
One more thing to check: he opened a padded case to reveal two exquisite and very old porcelain statues, the finest Sevres work. Dating back to the time of Napoleon, they'd for a short time graced the mansion of a Vichy collaborator before being returned to a small museum in Marseilles after the war. Now they would serve as bait to lure members of that family into his plan to eliminate his greatest enemies, Papa Bear and the insufferable McGarrett. He'd handle that San Francisco cop and his partner later.
A quick cab ride to the airport, just in time to catch a shuttle flight to Los Angeles. He'd go into hiding for a couple of days, then re-emerge with a new identity. His enemies' days were numbered.
o-o-o-o-o
Back in his office after delivering Jeannie safely home, Mike studied the police artist's sketch, then pulled an old photo from a dusty file. "It could be," he muttered. "Just add a few years, factor in the grey hair. It just could be." He showed the photo to his young partner. "What do you think, Steve?"
"It's the same guy. I'd swear to it in court if I had to."
"You got an address?"
Steve nodded. "Want to pick him up?"
"Call him first. Tell him we need more information about the accident."
"No luck, Mike," Steve reported a few minutes later. "He checked out an hour ago and grabbed a cab, probably to the airport. I'll check with the companies that serve that hotel."
"Let me know what you find."
"I'm drawing a blank," a frustrated Keller finally said after a disappointing search. "He changed cabs a couple of miles later and just seems to have vanished. So, where do we go from here?"
"Just send a report, fingerprints, and the sketch to the FBI for verification. They'll add it to his file." Mike waited a moment for Keller to return to his desk, then he picked up his phone and dialed. "Mike Stone here. Let me talk to Steve McGarrett . . ."
The call finished, he grabbed his coat and trademark fedora, and headed for his colleague's desk. "Come on, Buddy Boy. We're taking Jeannie out to dinner. You drive. I can't afford another fender bender!"
This story continues in an up-coming Five-O - Hogan's Heroes crossover, "Once A Thief."