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Robert Treat Hotel
Newark, New Jersey
0915 8 March 1943
Kurt Bayer passed through the front doors of the hotel carrying a brown paper sack that was imprinted in black with: TRENTON PHARMACY/WE DELIVER CITY-WIDE/PHONE HILL 4-3466.
In the bag, he had a fifty-tablet bottle of double-strength aspirin, a roll of two-inch-wide sterilized gauze, a roll of white fabric adhesive tape, a pair of blunt-tip scissors, a pint bottle of the topical antiseptic Mercuro-chrome, and a fifteen-piece box of Whitman’s Sampler chocolates.
He scanned the lobby for any sign of Richard Koch. He did not see him, even in the cushioned chair where the agent usually sat to read the newspaper and smoke cigarettes.
On one hand, he was glad, because if Koch learned that he had used the cash he’d given him for Mary again, Koch would no doubt launch back into his speech about the relationship having to end.
On the other hand, however, he did grudgingly admit that he admired his partner and knew that he could use some wise counsel right now to help Mary.
When Bayer got to the ninth floor, he noticed motion at the end of the hallway to the right. When he glanced that way, he expected to see the hairy, heavyset man in the tight suit. He instead saw a tall, dark-skinned man in casual slacks, shirt, and leather jacket. He had black hair that was nicely trimmed and a neat, thin black mustache.
And he was, as the heavyset man had been, having apparent difficulty getting his room key to work in his door.
Guess the fat guy didn’t report it, Bayer thought as he approached room 909, and if you don’t report it, it won’t get fixed.
Bayer put his key in his door, unlocked it, and opened it just enough to slip inside quickly and quietly so as not to awaken Mary.
That, he immediately saw with the light of the bedside lamp, hadn’t been necessary.
Mary was awake. And sitting up, albeit clearly with some discomfort.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said.
She made her gap-tooth smile.
“Hi.”
He held up the paper bag for her to see.
“I went to the pharmacy, got you some stuff.”
“Thank you.”
Bayer took off his winter coat, put it—with the Walther pistol in the pocket—on the upholstered chair by the coffee table, then walked over to the curtain.
“Okay if I open this? It’s a beautiful morning. Might make you feel better.”
“I guess.”
He slowly pulled back the curtain with his left hand and soft morning light from the western exposure began to fill the room.
When it was all the way open, Bayer turned—and almost dropped the bag.
The morning light emphasized Mary’s injuries. Her bruising had turned deeper during the night, so much so that, for example, places on her face that had been separate spots the night before had melded into one big blue-black bruise.
I swear on my mother’s grave that I will get the bastards who did this….
Bayer walked to Mary, removing the box of chocolates from the bag as he went.
He sat beside her on the bed and held out the box.
