Day of Reckoning: A Novel

By Ralph de Toledano

First published in 1955, Day of Reckoning by Ralph de Toledano, author of Seeds of Treason, is a novel based on the 1943 assassination of Carlo Tresca, an Italian-American newspaper editor, orator, and labor organizer who was a leader of the Industrial Workers of the World during the 1910s.

The murder of an idealistic anarchist prompts an inquiry by Paul Castelar, an honest newspaperman and a veteran of the International Brigade in the Spanish Civil War.

He is drawn in by Gina Farrel, the murdered man’s niece, who comes to him convinced that the same political gangster who killed her uncle is now after her…

A gripping read!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muriwai Books
• Release date: Jul 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789126846

Ralph de Toledano

Ralph de Toledano (1916-2007) was a major figure in the conservative movement in the United States throughout the second half of the 20th century. A friend of President Richard Nixon, he was a journalist and editor of Newsweek and the National Review, and the author of twenty-six books, including two novels and a book of poetry. He also wrote about music, particularly jazz. Born on August 17, 1916 in Tangiers, Morocco, to Simy (Nahon), a former news correspondent, and Haim Toledano, a businessman and journalist, his parents were both Sephardic Jews and American citizens. The family moved to New York when he was five years old. A proficient violinist from childhood, he attended the Ethical Culture Fieldston School and the Juilliard School. He graduated from Columbia University in 1938 with a degree in literature and philosophy. In 1940, he became editor of the Socialist Party of America’s magazine, The New Leader. During WWII, he was drafted and became an anti-aircraft gunner before being transferred to the Office of Strategic Services and trained for covert work in Italy, although he was never sent. After the war, he pursued a career in journalism, joining Newsweek in 1948. In 1950 he became a Republican and met Nixon during his coverage of Nixon’s 1950 Senate campaign, during which Toledano addressed crowds and Nixon introduced him as the author of Seeds of Treason, which Toledano co-wrote in 1950 with Victor Lasky and which covers the perjury trial of Alger Hiss, a man accused of being a Soviet spy. He was among the founders of National Review in 1955, and in 1960 began a column for the King Features Syndicate. An avid scholar of jazz, he turned back to his first passion of music during the latter half of his long career at National Review and wrote a music review column. In 2005, he became commander of the National Press Club, a post he held until his death in Bethesda, Maryland, on February 3, 2007, at the age of 90.

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Text originally published in 1955 under the same title.

© Muriwai Books 2018, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

DAY OF RECKONING

A Novel by

RALPH DE TOLEDANO

"The only hope, or else despair

Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre—

To be redeemed from fire by fire."

—T. S. Eliot

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

I 5

II 11

III 17

IV 22

V 27

VI 35

VII 39

VIII 41

IX 47

X 52

XI 56

XII 59

XIII 65

XIV 67

XV 72

XVI 76

XVII 82

XVIII 88

XIX 92

XX 97

XXI 101

XXII 106

XXIII 110

XXIV 116

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 119

I

THE FINGERS OF HIS MIND WERE TIRED. THEY COULD NO LONGER snatch up the proper words to fit his ideas. He had spent the day pounding an old Royal which knew more than enough of the world’s evil, in a bright office which seemed to know none of it. And now he was seized with that special fatigue which comes of writing a story which tells all and offends no one.

Typing a 30 at the bottom of the last sheet, Paul Castelar gathered up the pages of his story, clipped them together, and slid them under the paper bail of Rob McCarten’s typewriter. He made a neat pile of his black sheets, his clips, his memos, and dropped it on his researcher’s desk. It was late, very late, and the quiet of the office was touched only by the rustle of the cleaning women as they dusted and swept. The other writers had long since gone to homes in Scarsdale, Forest Hills, or Rumson—or to the fringes of Sutton Place and Gramercy Park.

In the comfort of this solitude, Paul Castelar surveyed the world of his desk: his IN basket and his OUT basket; the books and pamphlets; the orderly stack of copy paper and the disorderly rubble of letters received and memos unread. The mermaids did not sing to him; he tightened his tie, rolled down his sleeves, put on his coat, and in a few minutes of elapsed time had shaken from his feet the dust of Slant, The Magazine With Direction.

His mood and his feet carried him the few blocks to the Mission for a quick drink and a quiet moment of watching the more prosperous inebriates playing the match game. This turned into two and three and four, and he was caught up in the shoptalk of newspapermen who resent the homeward path. But tonight the alcohol backfired, leaving him listless and overcome by the weight and aimlessness of his mortality. Finally, as he stood before his door, his mind focused only on the thought of white bed linen and the peace of darkness. He paused for a moment before turning the key in the lock. The door opened noiselessly.

And then he was alive again. Even as he stepped over the doorsill, he had that small, oppressive sense of wrongness. Perhaps only the delicate scent hit his nostrils, but the warning was there. Moving on instinct, he shut the door quickly and quietly, stepped inside, and stood absolutely still, waiting for the pounding of his heart to subside. In a brief space his eyes grew accustomed to the dark; his ears picked up the gentle sound of breathing, passive and regular. Somebody was in the room, casually asleep. Careful not to stumble over the outcroppings of furniture, Paul made his way to the desk and snapped on the lamp.

The somebody was a small blonde woman, lying on his couch. Allowing for the lightening of sleep, she was in her late twenties, pert of face, reminiscent of features, pleasant of figure. He had never seen her before. The woman’s skirt had slipped up, and Paul noted sourly that his reaction was simply that no gun was strapped to the thigh. He noted too that her small purse sat on the desk, well out of her reach. Circumspection seemed slightly ridiculous. Paul leaned against his desk, still shaken, wondering what to do. She hadn’t moved, but he knew now that she was awake.

That’s pretty good, he thought. Somebody has given her lots of training. In the past Paul had known people who could wake up instantly alert. But to wake up alert and still simulate sleep—that took training. He had known a boy in Spain who could do it, a boy who had learned the hard way, practicing it against the secret police of many countries. Wondering where this slight, attractive woman had picked up the trick, and why, he spoke to her.

You can open your eyes now, he told her.

She opened them slowly and gave him a long look. You can take your hand out of your pocket now, she said. Paul pulled a left hand out of his pocket. It had been clutching a pack of cigarettes. He thought she would smile, but she didn’t.

Gino is dead, was all she said.

Very funny, Paul answered.

Gino Rosselli is dead, she insisted.

Paul shook his head impatiently. It was something he had always expected to hear—but it made the believing no easier. He let anger substitute for shock.

Who the hell are you? he asked roughly.

I’m his niece, she said.

Examining the pert, cool face, Paul could see a strong resemblance. She had the same mouth, with the same slightly puffy underlip. Her eyes were the same kind of blue. They didn’t dance and sparkle as Gino’s did—but they were Gino’s eyes.

Let’s do some checking, Paul said, picking up the phone. Dialing a downtown number, he asked for the City Desk. There was a click and a flat voice told him that he had been put through.

Bill Watson, Paul said. In a second, Bill’s voice came on, sharp, precise, urgent.

Bill, this is Paul Castelar. Anything tonight on Gino Rosselli?

Jesus Christ, Bill exploded. I was just going to call you. Rosselli was murdered tonight. How the hell did the word get around so fast?

Death is a carrier pigeon, Paul said.

Sure, said Watson. I should have known. You were pretty close to Rosselli, weren’t you?

I was pretty close, Paul answered.

That’s dandy, said Bill. You want I should get off this phone? Or can you give me a fill-in on what Rosselli was up to—if you know?

You can find it all in the clips—what’s printable, anyway. You can even find a piece I wrote about him.

It was a good piece, said Bill.

Good enough to update and rewrite—but not good for anything else. He slapped the top of his desk hard. Who did it, Bill? he asked. Where did they kill Gino? How did they kill him? Do you know?

Some of it I know, Watson said. He was walking on a side street near Washington Square. A car came up against traffic, someone jumped out and put two slugs in his back. But don’t ask me who killed him. I don’t know and the cops don’t know. I thought you might have a lead.

Thanks, Bill, Paul said. But I don’t have any leads right now. If I can think of something, I’ll pass it on to you. Maybe I’ll even know the name of the man who killed Gino.

Then he hung up.

Gino was dead. That was a hard little fact. Yesterday he had been very much alive and very much in earnest. Behind those ironic eyes there had been a terrible seriousness. A whole world of politics and intrigue, of evil and glory, had been balanced on Gino’s shoulders—and now it had collapsed under the impact of two slugs, fired by x, inspired by y, for z reasons. They might catch x, but y would remain untouched, and no one would believe z.

In a few months no one would remember Rosselli except a few newspapermen who had been handed a tough assignment, a few friends, a few political sectarians, a few bitter fighters for freedom. A little man had been murdered on a quiet New York street. A small world had tumbled. In a foreign cellar one dossier would be closed. But because Gino Rosselli had been murdered, a lot of other people might die—people who had never heard of Gino, but who were counting on him just the same.

Paul looked blankly at the phone he had just put down. He might have cried except that men don’t cry; except that he was a little more frightened than sorrowing. Though Gino had said nothing definite to him, Paul knew what he had been up to. There were pictures and papers Paul had given Gino, scraps of conversation Paul had overheard. There was Gino’s past and Paul’s past, and a future of calamity. And he was frightened because death has a heavy scent. If you got too close, some of it stuck to your clothes. There was another reason why he did not cry. The little blonde who stood at his side had two big tears rolling down her cheeks—and this was something real and near for him to cope with.

Sit down, kid, and let’s do some talking, Paul said to her.

She returned willingly to the couch and sat down. He lit her a cigarette, and while she took several deep, uneven drags, he got out a couple of glasses and a bottle of Fundador. When she had gotten the first stiff dollop down, Paul sat beside her and lit a cigarette for himself. There were many questions he wanted to ask, and foremost among them was why she had come to him.

Feel better? he asked. She nodded. Okay, kid. Now tell me this. Why are you here? What made you come to me? How did you know my name?

I’d like it better if you didn’t call me ‘kid,’ she said. My name is Gina Farrell. This was worth a smile, and Paul smiled.

And, she added, I came here because I’ve heard Gino talk about you. I heard him talk about you today. He was talking to someone over the phone and I heard him say, ‘Castelar is a good boy. I trust him.’ That’s how Gino felt about you.

Everybody trusts me, Paul said. That’s why I’m such a great newspaperman.

She ignored this. "Tonight I was working late, typing a manuscript for Gino, and the phone rang. Someone said, ‘If Monteleone comes in, tell him to get out fast. Gino has been murdered and the police will search his house as soon as they think of it.’ Then, whoever it was hung up. At first I thought it was a bad joke. You see, Monteleone was one of Gino’s pen names. And then I was scared. I knew it was true—because I always knew it would be true that way about Gino—and I knew that someone was warning me. There was some things I was supposed to burn if—if Gino died suddenly. I burned them after that call, but once they were all burned, I was twice as scared.

Then my eye fell on a scratch pad on Gino’s desk. It had your name and address written on it. I ripped out the page and got here as fast as I could. She smiled slightly. It wasn’t so hard to get in.

Paul got her handbag and opened it, pouring the contents on the couch. Brushing aside the things all women carry in handbags, he found a couple of letters addressed to Gina Farrell and a slip of paper, torn from a memo pad, with his name and address scrawled on it. The handwriting was Gino’s. So far the story checked. But the letters and the address could have been props. Whoever killed Gino could have rifled his desk before or after the shooting. And Paul had to be sure, very sure. You can take a chance on a horse, he thought, but if he doesn’t come in they don’t announce it in the obituary column.

Paul moved closer to Gina, gripped her arms tightly, and pulled her to him, pressing her mouth hard against his. She struggled, her small fists tried to poke at his stomach, and there was a grim, shocked look in her eyes. Paul felt a little better.

I just had to be sure, he said before she could speak out.

What kind of test is that? she asked angrily.

Not much of a test, he said. But it will have to do. Gino’s dead. Somebody killed him. Maybe Gino knew somebody was after him. Maybe he told somebody else. Maybe somebody would like to find out if he told me. I like pretty girls. Maybe you were sent to find out. There are lots more maybes.

And the kiss... She left the sentence unfinished.

If you’d kissed me back, you’d be out the door, he said. Now it’s like a paternity test. It doesn’t tell who the father is, but sometimes it tells you who he isn’t.

She smiled slightly again. You want to hear another maybe, Mr. Castelar?

Why not?

Maybe Gino was right about you. She gave his hand a friendly pat and poured herself another drink.

Okay. You ran out of Gino’s house and came here. Just because he said this afternoon that I was a good boy?

Well, not only for that reason.

And did you happen to make sure you weren’t followed?

I wasn’t followed. I made sure, Gina said.

I’d like to meet the guy who taught you these things. Not Gino.

No, not Gino.

What do you want from me, Gina?

Find out who killed my uncle, she said simply.

Just like that?

Just like that.

Without knowing anything about me?

She looked straight at him and said steadily, I know that Gino liked you. And I’ve read what you write. You hit hard when you’re mad. You say what you think. The cops won’t be mad, Mr. Castelar, and the cops won’t even know what to think.

What else, Gina?

She hesitated, but only for a moment. You knew Gino, Mr. Castelar. He was a man and he did the things men do. I’m not a child. I know he slept in a lot of beds he shouldn’t have slept in. And I know that some people are going to say that...that he was killed by a jealous man. Even some of his friends will say that—the friends who are afraid to admit why he died. But I know it’s not true, Mr. Castelar.

How do you know? Paul asked her.

I know, she said. And you know, too.

Maybe I do, he answered. But why did you come to me in such a hurry?

Gina looked down at her hands, then up at Paul. I was sure you’d let me stay with you until—I’m not so frightened.

Baby, he said, "you