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The blonde walked slowly past one of the brightly lit glass display cases, admired the earrings there, then continued walking. Cremer stopped and feigned interest in the jewelry while keeping an eye on Grossman.
As planned, Grossman was approaching the counter in the corner that displayed leather goods—wallets, purses, belts, and more.
After he casually looked at the contents of one case, a nicely dressed, dark-haired salesgirl behind the counter walked up and began speaking to him.
Grossman nodded, pointed to something in the display, and the salesclerk took out a key, unlocked the back of the display, and pulled out a wallet.
Grossman casually put the small leather case with the explosives on the counter beside an open black box containing leather key rings and took the wallet.
“Can I help you?” a young woman’s voice asked, startling Cremer.
He turned and now saw a pretty redheaded salesclerk standing behind the display with the earrings.
“Oh, no,” he said and smiled. “Thank you, but no. I just got distracted.”
“These can do that,” the redhead said, looking at the earrings.
“Yes, yes they can,” Cremer said and started walking toward the leather goods section.
When he reached it, Grossman was at the end of the counter, shaking his head and frowning as he handed back the wallet to the salesclerk.
Cremer heard him say, “Not quite what I need. I’ll just keep looking.”
“Very well,” the salesclerk said, then saw Cremer and turned to help him. When she had reached him, she asked, “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, please,” he said and pointed to a purse at the end of the counter farthest from Grossman. “I’m thinking of something for my girlfriend.”
As the salesclerk showed Cremer a large brown purse, he saw Grossman in his peripheral vision walking away from the display—without the small black leather case.
Fifteen minutes later, Cremer held a small brown paper bag with vertical stripes and the store logotype on it. In it was a half pound of warm salted cashews.
He put a handful in his mouth, then, chewing, went out the doors on the opposite side of the store that he and Grossman had entered, turned left on the sidewalk, went down Main Street for two blocks, made another left, onto Field, then came back to Commerce, turned, and went through the glass-and-bronze doors of the Adolphus.
Grossman had his suitcase in hand when Cremer reached the room.
Cremer looked to the coffee table; the second set of explosive and primer was no longer there.
“Okay,” Cremer said, nodding, “you go on. I’ll see you at the station.”
Cremer guessed that it was maybe six hundred meters from the hotel to Union Station and so far every step of the way he had half-expected the explosive to go off in that fancy department store with the Jewish name.
Grossman had set the fuses too short in the train stations in both Jacksonville and Atlanta. He had almost blown himself up in Atlanta.
Cremer had told him to set up the trigger—an ampoule of acid that caused a slow burn until it activated the fuse—so that it would not fire for at least an hour.
But with Grossman having again been so anxious, Cremer knew that there was a good chance he had screwed that up and so half-expected the bomb would go off at any moment.
He came to South Houston Street and made a left turn.
And when it does blow, it will certainly cause a curious new twist for the Americans to consider.
First it had been train stations and power plants on the East Coast.
And now Neiman’s—a Jude Speicher—in Texas?
How will officials explain this as a “coincidence”?
He joined the crowd making its way to and through the front doors of Union Station.
