The Image Seeker

by Amanda Hughes

  “Why haven’t you contacted me?” he asked.

  “I tried. I sent notes to the village, but a reporter I met said you would have little time to read them. He just interviewed you, Archie Barnard.”

  Felix looked confused. “Who?”

  “His name was Archie Barnard. He’s a journalist with The Belfast Gazette.”

  “Well, that’s odd. I haven’t granted any interviews.”

  Billie stared at him. “What? Not one?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “No, not any. I haven’t met anyone by that name. In fact, I’ve never even heard of The Belfast Gazette.”

  “Welles!” one of the athletes shouted. “The taxi’s here.”

  Felix embraced Billie once more. “Where are you staying?”

  “Right there,” she said, pointing to her hotel down the street.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said, dashing off.

  Billie crossed her arms as she watched the taxi pull away. It was wonderful seeing Felix again, but instead of feeling his warm embrace, she felt chilled.

  The words, “I haven’t granted any interviews,” echoed in her ears.

  Billie rubbed her arms. Who was Archie Barnard?

  Chapter 25

  Billie made sure Howard came with her to watch the marathon. She knew his powers were practically occult in finding good vantage points for shots, and she didn’t want to miss any opportunities to photograph Felix.

  “Have you ever been to a marathon before?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “The course is long. Spectators will be strung out for twenty-six miles. Fans tend to follow the favorites, so some spots can fill up, but it shouldn’t be too bad. It’s at the finish line where you’ll have trouble.”

  “Very well.”

  Billie couldn’t believe they were halfway through the Olympics. As much as she had dreaded the assignment, it was going incredibly fast. The weather was perfect for the marathon that afternoon. It was dry, clear, and cool. The race started at 3 pm in the Olympic stadium, would wind through the city, and finish again at the stadium.

  It was over a three-hour shoot for Billie, and every chance she got, she cheered loudly for Felix, taking as many pictures as possible. He started strong, but after a while, it became apparent the race would be dominated by Japan, Great Britain, and Finland.

  When he crossed the finish line with a time of 2-43:13, in 11th place out of 58 competitors, Billie worried. Felix may be upset.

  “Probably not, kid,” Howard said, folding up his tripod. “These guys compete against themselves. He beat his previous time by a full two minutes, which is a lifetime in this sport. Shit, he may even be tickled pink.”

  “Just getting to the Olympics is a feat,” she added.

  “Damn right, and he’s done it twice.”

  They adjourned to the Press Lounge and had a drink. Billie couldn’t get her mind off Barnard and scanned the room, hoping he was there. If she saw him, she would confront him.

  She asked at least twenty different reporters if they were acquainted with the man, but no one had heard of him. When at last she found a journalist who worked for The Belfast Gazette, her suspicions were confirmed.

  He shook his head. “Nobody by that name on staff, darlin’.”

  “Thank you,” she replied and returned to the hotel.

  Who was the man who came into the Press Room that evening? Was he a spy for the National Socialist Party? The whole thing terrified her.

  Billie slept little that night, and the next morning, the dreary weather made her feel even worse. Coffee made her anxious, so she decided to try to distract herself and start her day early. The tennis match Canfield wanted her to cover had been postponed because of mud, so she decided to photograph the gymnastics competition, which had been moved inside.

  As she was leaving the hotel, a short bellhop, no more than sixteen years of age, rushed up and handed her an umbrella. “Compliments of The Adlon,” he said with a smile.

  “Thank you,” she said and boarded the bus for the gymnasium.

  Billie sat back and looked out the window. All the chairs were up on end in the outdoor cafes, flowers drooped, and dogs wandered the street with soaked coats. Everywhere she looked, it was gray. The buildings of Berlin were gray. The sky was gray, and people’s umbrellas were gray. I want to go home, she thought. I want to be in my own country where I feel safe, not in this hotbed of intrigue where war could erupt any moment. I want to see Max.

  The bus arrived at the Olympic gymnasium, and when she stepped off, there was a rumble of thunder and a sudden downpour. Opening her umbrella, something caught her eye. It was a note taped to the inside of the fabric.

  “Oh wonderful,” she mumbled sarcastically, “another note.” She yanked it off angrily and read it. “File 18945 New York, New York. We have located Pollyanna. Please contact immediately.”

  Billie looked up, the rain pattering loudly on her umbrella. Could it be? Could the note be about Frank Rothman’s fiancée?

  She had to attend to this and fast.

  “Wait!” she yelled, running back to the bus. The driver opened the door and took her back to The Adlon.

  * * *

  Max could hear the phone ringing as he unlocked the door to his apartment. He was too tired to run for it. They could call back.

  He peeled off his dark suit coat and tossed it on a chair. He hated this suit. Wearing it always meant a funeral. Picking up a table lighter, he lit a cigarette. Slumping down into a chair, he blew smoke, staring straight ahead.

  His brother was dead. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t understand it. He had been improving day by day, and then, just like that, Frank died.

  Max couldn’t understand himself either. Throughout it all, he had been detached and preoccupied. The funeral had not been as brutal as he thought, and he knew it was because he was numb. Would he grieve later? Would it come upon him in a sudden rush and overwhelm him after he sorted through the puzzle of Frank’s death?

  The police were no closer to finding out who hit Frank than they had been two weeks earlier. When he finally regained consciousness, Frank remembered nothing. But he and Max both knew it had something to do with the new German government.

  And now the search for Elise was on Max’s shoulders.

  He snuffed out his cigarette and walked to the window. Looking out across the city, he buried his hands deep in his pockets and thought back to the day Frank gave him the news.

  “There is something I must say,” he mumbled. “I have people helping me search for Elise.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You must find her,” his brother continued breathlessly. “Your own flesh and blood is at stake. She is pregnant.”

  “Oh, my God, Frank. She’s going to have your baby?”

  Frank closed his eyes and nodded.

  “Who is helping you?”

  No response.

  “Frank, give me some names.”

  There was still no response. Frank had slid back into unconsciousness, and Max would have to ask him later. But the opportunity never came. Frank died the next morning.

  “How can I find her when I’m left with nothing?” Max blurted. He went back to the coffee table to light another cigarette. And to make matters worse, Billie was halfway around the world in that same country, a country preparing to fight the world a second time.

  The phone rang again, and he answered it. An operator with a thick German accent said something, and then he heard Billie say, “Max?”

  “Bassett!” he exclaimed. “Oh, my God. Just the voice I needed to hear.”

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’ve been better. How are you? Are you safe?”

  “I’m fine. I can’t talk, though. This is very important, Max. Listen to me closely. Pollyanna, the first edition, has been found.”

  Another delay, but this time it was not the connection. Max was stunned.

  “Max? Are you still there?”

>   “What the hell? How do you know this, Billie?”

  “Max, I’m sorry. I have to go. Find the rare book agent Frank has hired. He has news. Goodbye.”

  * * *

  “Oh, come on,” Howard said to Billie as they stood outside the stadium after the Closing Ceremonies of the XI Olympiad. “It’s our last night here. Kick up your heels a little.”

  Billie bit her lip. “Maybe for a little while.”

  “Good, be at Gasthof Gluek in an hour.”

  The Closing Ceremonies had been similar to the Opening Ceremonies; the only difference was it took place at night. There had been another long Parade of Nations, lots of flag waving, songs, and speeches.

  Even though Billie was glad it was over, she wasn’t relieved. Instead, she felt unsettled and anxious, and it all had to do with the message about Elise. What if the message was about someone else, and she had alarmed them for no reason at all?

  She sighed. It was too late now. Besides, it had to be done. She would have felt worse if she had said nothing at all.

  It was a beautiful evening, and she decided to walk back to the hotel. She hoped she was done with messages. There had been three more since Pollyanna, and with a resigned apathy, Billie had translated them and delivered them. She was tired, bone tired and sick of it all. Tomorrow, she would board a vessel for home, and she wouldn’t have to worry about intelligence workers approaching her any longer. That itself was a relief.

  And she was proud. She had done her part in the fight against the Nazis. Seeing them first-hand had confirmed the importance of her mission. The National Socialist Party were brutish thugs, and what terrified her the most was the German people followed them with a fervor that bordered on the fanatical.

  Billie stopped walking. But not all the German people adored The Third Reich. What about those agents who approached her? The insurgents were out there fighting against them. They may not be easy to see, but they were there too.

  She was also disappointed she never saw Felix. A message of apology came the day after the race, saying the team was returning to The States at once. He said he was unhappy about missing her and promised a reunion back home.

  Billie turned into the hotel and went up to her room to change. It was a balmy night, so after a cool bath, she dabbed on some light cologne and slipped on a filmy mid-calf gown. The pale peach color set off her amber complexion.

  She looked in the mirror. It felt good to be dressed up again. She had been in work clothes for two weeks, and it was nice to feel feminine again.

  She grabbed her evening bag and headed down to the lobby.

  “Miss Bassett?” she heard someone say. It was the front desk clerk.

  Billie walked over. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Romano telephoned. Your group is meeting at Café Freya instead. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Yes, I know of it. Thank you.”

  Billie walked through the revolving doors and down the street. Café Freya was a quaint café down the block, serving coffee, cocktails, and light suppers. Strings of lanterns illuminated an outdoor dance area where, in the evening, a jazz band played popular music.

  The journalists were scattered everywhere throughout the establishment, drinking at the bar, in the dining room, or outside at café tables. As Billie walked through, heads turned.

  She followed the sound of music outside. She found Howard sitting at a table with two reporters she knew from the crossing, Bertram Douglas, a paunchy, effeminate gentleman from Los Angeles, and Rupert Ingram, an attractive blond journalist from Atlantic City.

  “Woah, baby, look at you,” Howard bellowed as she sat down.

  Billie made a face at him.

  “Good to see you, Miss Bassett,” Bertram said, ignoring Howard. “Will you be with us on the ship tomorrow?”

  “Yes, and I am looking forward to it,” she replied after ordering a drink. “I am ready to go home.”

  “So am I.”

  Howard slapped Bertram on the back and exclaimed, “We miss California sunshine and all them starlets, don’t we?”

  Bertram looked at Billie and rolled his eyes.

  “Did you ever find that reporter from The Belfast Gazette?” Rupert Ingram asked.

  Billie took a sip of her drink and shook her head. “I never did, and I am officially putting the investigation to rest.”

  “Probably a good idea,” he replied. He ran his eyes over her figure and suggested, “Dance?”

  “Alright,” she said with a smile.

  Rupert was a good dancer, and he moved Billie around the floor effortlessly. “How come we haven’t danced before? There was a ballroom on the liner.”

  “I didn’t attend any of those functions.”

  “Are you always this aloof?” he asked, looking down at her lips.

  “Usually,” she said and turned her head to the side.

  Suddenly, someone said, “Rupert, old boy, may I cut in?”

  Billie stepped back and gasped. It was Max.

  “Rothman?” Rupert said with a frown. “When did you get here?”

  “Just now. Did I miss the Olympics?”

  Not laughing, Rupert shook his head and walked away.

  Dressed in an evening jacket and freshly-pressed trousers, Max did not look like he had just completed a last-minute trip to Berlin. His smooth black hair was freshly cut and his face clean-shaven. He gazed down at Billie. “Hello, Bassett,” he murmured.

  “Max, oh, Max,” she said, throwing her arms around him. “I can’t believe my eyes.” She looked at him as if it were the first time, appreciating his Middle Eastern beauty, the bronze skin and black eyes with thick, dark lashes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, your cryptic phone call had something to do with it.”

  “No!”

  “Yes, I have much to tell you, but first we dance.” He pulled her close, feeling the warmth of her face next to his own, her breasts and thighs pressing against him. They moved around the floor as the band played “The Way You Look Tonight” both savoring the sweetness of the reunion.

  The song ended, and they clapped. Nodding toward the three journalists back at the table, Max stated, “If we stop dancing, we are doomed. That pack of vultures will be all over us.”

  “How do you know Ingram?” Billie asked.

  “He’s East Coast. The other two I haven’t met.”

  “How on earth did you ever find me?”

  “The front desk knew where you were. I was in a panic. I was afraid I wouldn’t catch you before your ship departed tomorrow. At least we have tonight, Billie.”

  Another song started, and they danced again. She looked around the café. Billie hadn’t noticed how lovely it was here, the lanterns strung around the dance floor, the quaint round tables, waiters carrying glasses of green absinthe or dark cups of expresso, and people passing on the sidewalk their arms full of packages. The band was playing “Cheek to Cheek,” and Billie leaned in against Max. It was even her favorite song.

  Then reality hit. She leaned back to look at him. “You shouldn’t be here, Max! It’s too dangerous. Is Frank here too?”

  “No,” Max said and then hesitated. “Billie, Frank died a week ago.”

  She stopped dancing and stared at him. “What? From the injuries?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, Max, I thought he was getting better.”

  “So did I.”

  Max eased her back into the dance.

  “I’m so sorry,” Billie murmured. “I wish I had been there for you. Why didn’t you wire me?”

  “I was about to tell you the day you called, but you hung up so abruptly. And by the way, what the hell’s going on? How is it you got that message about Elise?”

  Billie pursed her lips as if to seal them, asking instead, “Did you ever hear from a detective or anyone at all about her whereabouts?”

  “No, I sort of hoped they would show up at the funeral, but they probably don’t know who they can trust. They may not even know Fran
k’s dead. Who gave you that message? I need to find out who Frank’s contact is over here.”

  Billie shrugged. “I wish I knew. It was a bellhop, and he dashed off. I’ve been watching for him and have not seen him since.”

  “A bellhop? What is going on, Billie?”

  Again, she avoided his question. “So, you’re here in Frank’s place?”

  “Yes, before he died, he asked me to find her. She’s going to have a baby.”

  Billie gasped.

  “That makes it all the more important I find her. But I’m not sure where to start. I did find a briefcase filled with information regarding her whereabouts, but it yields little.”

  “Did you bring it with you?”

  “Yes, I left it back at the Adlon.”

  Billie grimaced. “You should have told me you were coming.”

  “I know, but I believe every wire, every phone call, every move we make is monitored.”

  Billie ran her eyes around the cafe. “You are right about that.”

  They danced several more dances, and finally, Ingram and Douglas left. Howard said his goodbyes shortly after that and told Billie, if she was ever in L.A., she should look him up. “We’ll have a few drinks, a few laughs, and I’ll introduce you to the stars,” he said.

  “Sounds great, Howard, and thanks for all those great shots.”

  “Don’t mention it, kid.”

  After having a late supper, Billie and Max returned to the Aldon and stayed up the rest of the night talking. He brought the briefcase to her room, and Billie went through the documents. She was too bleary-eyed to read them closely, but Max assured her they said little.

  Instead, they brought each other up to date on their lives. As with good friends, no detail was too insignificant, no information too trivial. Billie told Max about the voyage over, the Games, about meeting Howard Romano, all the difficult shots, and finding Felix. And Max told Billie all of his news: Frank’s illness and sudden decline, details of the funeral, and newsroom gossip.

  When Max saw the sunrise, he jumped to his feet. “You need to pack! Your ship is leaving in a few hours.”

  Billie laughed. “When we returned to the hotel last night, I had the concierge cancel my reservation, and I phoned Canfield. I will return at my leisure. You need someone to help you find Elise.”