The Harbor of Death by Norman A. Daniels

Book Details

The Harbor of Death (1949) – Strange things are happening at the port. Fear has become part of the longshoremen’s daily routine. ‘Accidents’ have become frequent. Dan Fowler of the FBI goes undercover to get to the bottom of it.

The Ace of the F.B.I. and his aides cover the waterfront when fear and murder create deadly havoc!

With Millions at Stake, a Criminal Conspirator Fights for Control of Vast Shipping Interests!

Chapter I – Midnight Murder
Chapter II – Men of the F.B.I.
Chapter III – Corpse Bait
Chapter IV – Pay or Die
Chapter V – Window Signal
Chapter VI – G-Man Tactics
Chapter VII – Assignment to Murder
Chapter VIII – Lie Detector Test
Chapter IX – Change in Plans
Chapter X – Forced Confession

Norman A. Daniels was the pen name of Norman Arthur Danberg, (1905–1995). Danburg typically wrote under the alias Norman A. Daniels, but he also published under the pen names John L. Benton, Frank Johnson, and house names including Will Garth, Kenneth Robeson, C. K. M. Scanlon, and G. Wayman Jones.

The Harbor of Death has 16 illustrations.

Files:

1. Daniels-HarborOfDeath.epub

Excerpt: The Harbor of Death

Chapter I

Midnight Murder

AROUND the rim of the Island of Manhattan stretches the harbor and the dock area—from the Harlem River to Upper New York Bay at the Battery. Then along Brooklyn from the Narrows off 91st Street to Bush Terminal, the piers enclosing the docks point out into the bay and the rivers to offer shelter-like fingers to ships from all over the world.

By daytime there could be a place hardly less busy than these docks. By night there are some sailings and the area is brightly lighted and noisy until the last ship is pushed into the harbor by the puffing tugs. Then an almost eerie silence comes over the section. The lights go out. Only the tread of patrolmen on the streets bordering the waterfront and the sound of pier watchmen break the stillness. Before dawn it is as quiet as a graveyard and then, with the sun, it bursts into activity again.

All manner of derricks and cranes sweep every conceivable type of goods from docks, over the sides of the ships and into their holds. Everything from food and clothing for the still war-stricken populaces of Europe to sleek, low built, gold and pearl embossed cars for some Eastern potentate.

Handling all these things are a breed of men who are reputed tough and are tough. They make many of their own rules and abide by them.

They are as temperamental as a headachy opera star and unpredictable as a wild stallion.

The very nature of their work makes them tough and hard. No weakling could exist here, for the laws of nature would quickly weed out such a type. The whole waterfront is lined with stores of all kinds and cafés of mostly one type, catering to these men. They earn good money and they spend it fast as a rule.

Some of the men are brawlers by nature. The great majority of them do their hard work and then go home to their families where they live like other citizens. Among the latter type was Carl Roeder. Thick-necked, wide-faced and inclined to be somewhat stolid, Roeder had worked his way up to become pier boss. As such, he had to defend his position with his knuckles sometimes, but there were few challengers. He had thick arms and massive fists and he knew how to use them.

He also had a young, blonde, slim wife and two children of pre-school age. They were as proud of him as though he was superintendent of a great factory. Advancement along the waterfront is a real achievement. It takes tact and skill, brute force and quick thinking. It requires the handling of touchy men and touchier employers, unions, and the ever present menace of organized gangland which preys on the area.

CARL ROEDER shook the folds of his evening newspaper into place, carefully opened it to the woman’s page and placed it on the table. He stood up, stretched and yawned. His wife raised her head from her sewing, an anxious expression on her face.

“Got to go out,” Roeder said. “Boy, I’d rather go to bed, but this is important.”

“Carl—is it that important?” Mrs. Roeder asked nervously. “I don’t like you running around the harbor front at this hour of the night. There are many of the boys who don’t like you.”

Roeder grinned. “Most of ’em do.” His tone was casual. “The others can go jump off the end of a pier.” He frowned and grew serious. “I’m not afraid of them, but lately—well, there’s no sense bothering you about it.”

“Tell me, Carl,” she begged. “You know I’m interested. Is it more trouble about ships the men refuse to load because they don’t trust the countries the goods are for?”

He stood there, the frown still on his big face. “I’m not sure I can tell you anything. Something is wrong, that’s sure, but I can’t put my finger on it. There are some new men—bums—in the shape-up gangs every morning. I don’t like them or trust them. And whenever I’m around the big shots, like Mr. Porter, I half sense that he’s worried sick.”

Mrs. Roeder laid her sewing aside and looked at him pleadingly. “Carl, I wish you wouldn’t go. I know the enemies you have made recently. They’re bad. In the last six months there have been three murders of men like you. I get scared when you’re out alone—sitting here and worrying. And tonight you act as though it’s — almost some danger you’re going into. If I know you—and I do—you are worried too.”

He went over and put a hand on her shoulder. “My car is out front. I’ll get in and drive straight to the company offices. I won’t be walking the streets and I won’t stop in anywhere for a drink. So don’t worry. Pretty good men have tried to take me before and never did. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I don’t have to be happy either.” She looked up at him and smiled. “But I am—with you and the kids. That’s why I don’t want anything to happen. Carl—there’s no union trouble?”

“Oh, no. Anyway that sort of thing can be handled easy. It’s more than the union, Madge. I think they’re trying to fight it too, but I doubt they know any more than I do about what they’re fighting. That’s what we’ve got to find out—what’s behind this—this—whatever it is. So far, I think it’s just a feeling, but when a man gets that on the waterfront, he knows something is going to pop.”

“And you got ideas,” Madge Roeder smiled. “You always have ideas, Carl.”

He chuckled. “They’ll probably laugh me out of the place. But I’m to meet an important man. Mr. Porter arranged it. I don’t know who this man is, but I’ve got a hunch about that too. I think it’s a government agent.”

Madge Roeder emitted a long sigh. “Then there is danger. Carl, be careful!”

He swung into his coat and reached for his hat. “I told you I’m going to drive all the way and if it makes you feel any better, I’ll lock the car doors from the inside. Now stop worrying. Everything is going to be all right.”

“I’ll be here, waiting,” Madge Roeder told him. “Good luck, Carl.”

He closed the apartment door and walked fast down the corridor to the self-service elevator. He was worried too, and he felt badly about Madge noticing it. There’d been too much whispering, too many strangers around. He opened the elevator door somewhat carefully and looked out into an empty lobby. It was ten of eleven, still early. There’d be plenty of people on the streets, plenty of traffic. He was worrying about nothing definite anyway, though far back in his mind he remembered the three men who had died by violence within the last six months. Men like himself, who would stop at nothing to keep the waterfront quiet and peaceful.

His car, a medium-priced eight-year-old model, was parked directly in front of the door. He unlocked it, climbed in and stepped on the starter. He began to pull away, braked and took the time to lock all the doors. Paul Bradley had been killed by two men who leaped on the running board of his car, yanked open the doors and shot him from two sides.

He headed downtown, took a cross street and was soon riding along the waterfront. The bars were open and going at full blast. Groups of men hung around the corners. At Pier 51 passengers were boarding one of the luxury liners due to sail at midnight. There was the usual confusion at this point and Roeder had to weave in and out of traffic, mostly composed of cabs.

He traveled a little faster after he got through this maze and he was too intent upon trying to solve the puzzle of what was wrong with the docks to notice the old, heavy sedan that came out of a cross street just ahead of him.

Excerpt From: Norman A. Daniels. “The Harbor of Death.”