"Hi, Dad." It was Joe speaking on the phone. "Sorry we didn't manage to call you yesterday. We were awfully busy."
"That's okay son," said Mr. Fenton Hardy. "I know you two can take care of yourselves. Your mother and Aunt Gertrude are concerned about you, though. They'll be happy to see you back safe in Bayport." It was good to hear his father's warm, rich voice, even over a telephone line. It must soothe the jangled nerves of his clients, Joe thought.
"Well, fancy that, Aunt Gertrude being concerned about us!"
Mr. Hardy chuckled. "How is the case going?"
"Good. We've met Heinze so the 'mystery' of his disappearance is done with, but the situation isn't resolved yet. There's something we wanted to ask you. We met a fellow who calls himself Charles – that's supposed to be his last name. He claims to know you. What can you tell us about him?"
"Oh, sure, Niklas! I haven't heard from him in years. He used to be a private detective in New York, one of the best. He seemed to know everybody and to have connections everywhere. Drank too much though. He married a rich young woman and moved to San Francisco. I think he's looking after her businesses and isn't a detective anymore."
"The guy we know is maybe forty, slender build, has dark hair and a neat moustache."
"Sounds like the Nick I know. He's a particular dresser. He seemed to wear a different suit whenever I met him."
"Great. That all checks out then. Is there any chance he could be assisting the F.B.I.?"
"It's possible. The F.B.I. uses outside investigators for particular cases. It wouldn't be surprising if they asked for his help. Niklas is a competent fellow. You can expect the unexpected from Niklas."
"Thanks Dad. Sorry, but we don't have time to talk more right now. Say 'Hi' to Mom and Aunt Gertrude for us. We'll be in touch again soon."
The air was cool and refreshing this Saturday morning. It was hard to imagine all the soot that sifted down from the sky, the product of the tall chimneys of power plants on the waterfront. It was quieter today. Frank could hear the horns of steamships and freighters passing by on the East River some blocks away.
Leaving their hotel, the Hardys passed the newsstand. "What's the latest?" asked Joe.
"Oh, the police were knocking heads at the Yorkville Theater last night. A riot at the Nazi supporters' meeting."
That stopped the brothers in their tracks. Frank retraced his steps, flipped a coin to the vendor, and picked up a newspaper. The newspaper article reported that on Friday night there was a meeting of the German-American Alliance at the Yorkville Theater on East 88th Street. There were protesters outside belonging to various socialist and labor groups. A lecture was given, followed by several speeches. So far, everything had gone peacefully. The Alliance held a ceremony in which they inducted new members. Some of the protesters apparently had entered the theater. At this point they rushed the stage and tried to pull down a German flag. A brawl erupted. The socialists were outnumbered but one of them opened a fire door and shouted for help from his fellows outside on the sidewalk. They went in swinging their pickets like clubs. Somewhere in the meleé an Alliance member pulled a handgun and shots were fired. Two protesters went down. They were expected to recover. The police arrived at this time and eventually subdued the crowd.
"No doubt the police did a fair amount of clubbing of their own," said Frank. "I bet the socialists were at the receiving end of most of it."
"The police have to maintain order. It was the protesters that stormed the meeting."
"You're saying that because the fascists paid rent for the theater the police should take their side?"
"Of course the police shouldn't take any side, but it was a legitimate meeting and the protesters came in armed."
"Somebody else came armed and ready for trouble too. I bet the police didn't arrest the guy with the gun."
"No, it seems he slipped away in all the confusion," answered Joe, reading the rest of the story. "There are photographs too."
"Look, there's a portrait of George Washington hung on the stage right next to the swastika."
"I think they call him the original fascist."
"Let's see if the Daily Telegram has a story on the riot." They purchased a copy of the tabloid.
"Well, well," said Joe. "There's a brief story. Guess who gets the byline. It's our friend, Molly Mirkin."
"Let's see now. The meeting started at eight. I guess Molly managed to miss the speeches and arrive in time for the fighting."
The Hardys arrived at Heinze's brownstone at noon. A group of boys, no more than ten years of age, walked pass. Wearing caps or fedoras and overcoats, they looked like miniaturized adults. Around the corner a man was selling vegetables off the back of a truck. He was hollering loud enough for residents of the top floor of the apartment buildings to hear him.
Otto, Olivia and their son were waiting for them in the cramped two rooms on the second floor. Joe turned his attention to the little boy. "How's our little baseball player?" Joe said he shook the boy's hand. The boy grinned but didn't say anything. He stood close to his mother and swiveled and swayed on the spot.
"He's a little shy around strangers. Aren't you, Charlie? Well these boys are our friends and they're going to help your father, so you'd better be nice to them."
"He's a bit young for baseball," said his smiling father, seated on the threadbare couch. "We will play catch in St. Nicholas Terrace Park. It's only a few blocks west. There are not many suitable playgrounds in this neighborhood. It is sad. The children play all day in the streets or in abandoned buildings. Some day soon I will take him to a New York Giants game at the Polo Grounds."
Frank chuckled. He explained, "It's just that Joe here is a big Yankees fan."
"Yes, but the Yankees are the team of the Bronx, the Giants are Manhattan's team, is that not so?"
Joe grinned. "That's one way of looking at it, I suppose."
Frank saw that Charlie was not quite used to having a father in the house. At times, Charlie looked blankly and uncertainly at Heinze. His attention turned to his mother for reassurance.
As if she could read his thoughts, Olivia said, "Charlie needs a father now. Otto came back just in time. You see the boys just a bit older than he is and they're spending all day in the streets. It won't take much for them to get into trouble, and one thing leads to another."
Joe looked out the dirt-streaked window. The apartment building across the street had had all of its windows removed and the openings were boarded up with planks. On the ground floor all the wood was covered with advertising posters which were now faded and peeling off. At the entrance someone had painted 'Danger Keep Out' in clumsy letters on the wood. Girls were skipping rope on the sidewalk, singing out rhymes.
"We should be going soon," said Heinze. "We need to take the child back to Olivia's place where her sister can look after him. Olivia has a rehearsal with the band this afternoon at Earl's. We can go there and eat."
Three men were waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. One of them was the young gunman the Hardys had disarmed the previous night. Stepping forward to confront Heinze was a short, older man. His thinning white hair rimmed a pink bald top. Joe decided he must have been the man sitting in the car outside Earl's last night.
"We've seen enough of the foot soldiers," said Joe. "It's about time we met the officers in charge."
"I've got a score to settle with these two," snarled the young gunman.