Bishop Takes Knight

by McKenna Dean

  Had I ever known anything that intense? No. I didn’t think a marriage should be based on anything less, either.

  The enclosed file was brief, but powerful in its brevity. Knight had come to the United States during the Second World War to work with Oppenheimer’s team at Los Alamos as part of the Manhattan Project. After the war, when Oppenheimer became chairman of the United States Atomic Energy Commission, Knight had landed at Cornell, and from there had become a leading voice warning about the dangers of nuclear arms proliferation.

  If only he knew....

  In 1952, he married an American by the name of Margo Collins and became a U.S. citizen.

  The next entry made me catch my breath. On May 3, 1953, a hit-and-run driver struck and killed Margo Knight. An attached report included a subsequent public drunk and disorderly charge against Knight, and several statements by colleagues as to the same. Obviously, Knight had not handled the death of his wife well. Given the clear attachment between them in the photograph, it wasn’t surprising. Although tenured by that point, the House Committee on Un-American Activities declared Knight a Communist due to his association with Oppenheimer. As a result, Knight lost his position at Cornell and wound up blacklisted by other universities.

  Then he moved out of his apartment and disappeared. Dropped out of sight. No forwarding address. No known whereabouts.

  Except I had seen him last month outside the Blue Moon.

  I closed the file and stood. Miss Climpson looked up as I approached her desk, a slight frown puckering her brow.

  “How does this field agent thing work? If I need to be out of the office, is that a problem?”

  Miss Climpson rocked back in her chair as if my question was the utter limit. Disbelief that Ryker had promoted me in such a manner dripped from every word she spoke. “Ryker assigned you a case. That’s your sole priority now. If tracking down Dr. Knight takes you out of the office, so be it.” She pulled her drawer open with unnecessary force and sorted through some papers to lay a stack of forms on the desk in front of me. “You need to track your expenses. You have a daily allotment of two dollars toward meals and transportation. Anything above that comes out of your own pocket and must be approved for reimbursement.”

  I picked up the paperwork.

  “Your time is your own, but understand you’re still at work, Miss Bishop. No running off to the matinee because it suits you.”

  “Unless, of course, my case takes me there.” I met Miss Climpson’s stare without blinking.

  She narrowed her eyes, not liking my attempt at humor. “That would seem highly unlikely.”

  I shrugged. “You never know.”

  I returned to my desk and placed the paperwork in my drawer. I left the ray gun in my pocket. Collecting the tattered remains of my purse, along with my hat and coat, I was almost out the door when Miss Climpson raised her voice to stop me. “Where do you think you’re going, Miss Bishop?”

  I turned around. By her annoyed expression, it seemed Miss Climpson already thought I was taking advantage of the new rules to play hooky. I noted the dark circles under her eyes and the marked droop to her lips and decided not to be mean. “I have a lead.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “What? Already?”

  I gave her a cheery little smile and waved as I headed out the door.

  Chapter Six

  As leads went, mine could have been better.

  After three days of haunting the street where the Blue Moon café was located, I was stuffed to the gills with finger sandwiches and shortbread, and I never wanted another cup of tea as long as I lived.

  There is only so much time an unaccompanied woman can spend in a restaurant without calling unwanted attention to herself. That first day, I lingered over coffee, dallied over marmalade and toast, and dawdled over pie I no longer had any desire to eat. When the manager fixed me with a jaundiced eye, I paid my bill and left.

  Shopping was a risky venture—what if my target passed by the store while I was inside? Still, it couldn’t be helped. I loitered in front of shop windows as though I couldn’t decide what I wanted and then skipped inside to make a rapid purchase. Something small. A packet of needles. A thimble. A card for my mother I’d never send.

  After forty-eight hours of no success and sore feet, I had to rethink my strategy. There was always the possibility Knight had come to that part of town for a specific reason and wouldn’t return, but as it was the only line I had on locating him, I worked under the assumption he’d be back. Diners and bars were my best bet. Given Knight’s reported frame of mind before he disappeared, frequenting a watering hole in the middle of the day wasn’t unthinkable. The problem was determining which one. There were dozens of bars and grills in the immediate area, so I began ticking them off my list.

  The first one was the hardest. Obviously, a single woman entering a bar in the middle of the day was looking for trouble. Between the dim lighting, the hazy miasma of stale smoke, the floors sticky with spilt beer, and the inevitable masher who tried to put his hands on me, I had to remind myself what a coup it would be if I found Knight. It was impossible to walk into a bar without the patrons taking note, but I became adept at taking a quick scan of the room for my target and making my escape before anyone approached me. As luck would have it, no sign of Peter Knight.

  But I had hopes I might be successful yet. I still had an ace I hadn’t played.

  On the third day, I showed up with a sketchbook and drawing pencils. I’m not much of an artist, but it gave me a splendid excuse for hanging about for hours peering out the window as I drew the local scene. After another unsuccessful round of bar hopping the day before, I dared not make a repeat appearance anywhere unless I had a solid lead to pursue. For similar reasons, I didn’t try the Blue Moon again—I felt certain the manager wouldn’t have allowed me to camp out a second time. Instead, I chose a hole-in-the-wall diner and took a seat by the greasy window. No one seemed to care that I occupied a table for hours, as long as I ordered something from time to time. I’m somewhat better at portraits than architecture, so I began sketching the patrons, which seemed to amuse my waitress.

  But still no Dr. Knight.

  I was about to give up when inspiration struck me again. With my hand flying over the pad, I sketched Knight as I remembered him from the encounter on the street, supplemented with the refresher I’d received from the photos in his folder. I drew him wearing his camel hair coat with his fedora pulled down over eyes that had seen too much. I shadowed the edge of his jaw and chiseled the elegant nose. I was putting the finishing touches on the lines pulling down the corners of his mouth when the waitress topped off my chipped mug.

  “Who’s that handsome devil?” She lifted her eyebrows in admiration as she poured. Her nametag read “Linda”. Steam rose from my cup, bringing with it the delectable aroma of coffee.

  “His name’s Peter.” I thought of Regina Betterton, and her “problem” our senior year of college. I let dejection fill my voice. “We used to hang out. Have some laughs, you know? Only he left me in the lurch and now I can’t find him.” I set the sketch pad down, pushing it in Linda’s direction. Catching her eye, I added with emphasis, “I need to find him.”

  Linda made a tsking sound and picked up the pad. Pressing her lips together in concentration, she tipped her head to one side as she studied the drawing. Shaking the sketch pad, she said, “You know, I think I’ve seen him.”

  I sat up straight.

  “In here?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Once or twice, though not for a while now.” She squinted in thought. “Two eggs, sunny-side up. Sausage, toast, and coffee, black, no sugar. Hungover.” Snapping her fingers, her eyes widened, and she pointed at the drawing. “That’s right. Breakfast after a bar run. I remember now because he complained about the food there. Moneta’s Bar and Grill. Over on Macintosh Street. It’s not far from here, but it’s not the sort of place you want to go to by yourself.” Her expression was sympathetic, one woman to another that s
he should give up on a lost cause.

  I wasn’t about to go back to Redclaw empty-handed. For an instant, I thought of contacting Miss Climpson and asking for backup, but I dismissed it as unnecessary. I hadn’t even spotted Knight yet. Better to wait until I was sure of my quarry.

  I paid my bill and left the diner. I had just one shot at this, so I had to get it right. It was time to play my ace.

  I went back to my apartment, took a long soak in the tub, and changed into something more appropriate for a night out on the town. Splurging on a taxi, I had the driver deliver me to the Moneta’s Bar and Grill at nine p.m. I’d done a little research at the library in the meantime. The tavern had been a haunt of the likes of Ernest Hemingway, and that Thomas fellow, the one who wrote the poem about not going gentle into that good night. The bar’s history didn’t mean it was any less of a dive than some other places I’d visited recently. Tonight, I cared less about its past occupants and more about its current.

  My father once said you handled a boardroom full of hostile stockholders the same way you faced down an angry leopard: you walked into the situation as though you were in complete control.

  Just because someone’s bad decisions had resulted in them taking their own life didn’t mean you tossed out every piece of advice they’d ever given.

  An unaccompanied woman walking into a tavern at night was unseemly. But I had my ray gun secreted in my new clutch and was wearing a drop-dead gorgeous little blue number with white piping that screamed confidence. It had the added benefit of being a swing dress, and the wide, flowing skirt wouldn’t restrict my movement. Smoothing my bodice, I opened the door to the pub.

  Inside, it was as if I’d stepped through a portal into another world. Unlike my daytime pub crawls, the bar was full of people now. The heat was the first thing I noticed, followed by a solid wall of noise and laughter radiating off the humanity within. The air was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and the yeasty odor of ale. The atmosphere was jovial.

  I surveyed the room. A group of Brooklyn boys played darts in one corner. Several men sat a table laughing over large pints of beer. A solitary man sat at the bar itself, a crutch at his side as he hunched over his drink. Two grey-haired old men played checkers with the intensity of aficionados, the smoke from their pipes hanging over their heads like storm clouds as they studied their board. A couple of men in suits looked over in my direction, one of them nudging his friend and speaking out of the side of his mouth while never taking his eyes off me. He and his friend burst into raucous laughter, which I ignored. The few women in the joint were there with dates, which made my presence stick out like a sore thumb. I didn’t see Knight.

  Stalling for time, I took out my compact, using the mirror to check out various parts of the room while pretending to touch up my lipstick. According to Linda, this was Knight’s usual hangout. But today’s date was special: May 3rd, the second anniversary of his wife’s death. My ace in the hole. The odds were high he’d be here tonight, since he was in the habit of drowning his sorrows at this particular bar. Was I too late? Or too early? I closed the compact with a snap and replaced it in my clutch.

  It was then I saw him. Peter Knight. The man I’d come here to find.

  I’d missed him before. He was sitting alone on a bench in a dark corner of the pub, staring down into a glass of whiskey. I straightened my dress and drew a deep breath. My heels clicked on the wooden floor as I approached his table, but Knight didn’t look up. He was the sole person in the bar who wasn’t eyeing me with curiosity.

  I slipped into the seat across from him.

  From his bleary-eyed, ruffled state, it was clear Knight had been drinking for some time. I smothered the sense of disappointment, despite knowing an anniversary of this kind would be difficult for anyone. He looked up as I sat down, blinking like a confused owl to see me in front of him.

  After a brief glance at me, he dropped his gaze back to the glass cradled in his hands. On the street outside the Blue Moon, while wearing a hat, I’d assumed his hair was dark, but I saw now he had the thick thatch of sandy brown hair that so often seemed to retreat into baldness in middle age, and he hadn’t shaved in a day or two. The overhead light glinted gold on his stubble, making him seem like a teenager playing at being an adult. The heavy lock of hair that hung over his forehead enhanced the impression. A rain-spattered fedora rested on the table by his hand in the manner of someone who’d intended to stop in for one drink but had lost track of the time.

  I’d found him, and come hell or high water, I wasn’t leaving without confirming Knight as a committed member of Redclaw.

  “Dr. Peter Knight?” With careful deliberation, I pitched my voice so it was light, crisp, but friendly, and just loud enough to carry over the ambient noise in the bar.

  Alcohol might have made his eyes bloodshot, but they were still as intense as I remembered. He looked up and narrowed them at my words. His dossier had listed his age as thirty-three, but he looked younger to me. His eyes gave him away. Eyes that had seen too much and lived to tell the tale. He couldn’t have been out of school long when he began his war work. That alone gave testimony to his sheer intelligence.

  “Who wants to know?” The accent was pure Oxford, clipped and aristocratic. And about as friendly as a door being slammed in your face.

  I ignored the implicit warning to go away.

  “My name is Henrietta Bishop. I have a proposition for you.” I realized I should have ordered a drink to fit in. I caught the bartender’s eye, and he gave me a nod before reaching under the bar for a bottle of whiskey to pour out a shot without asking what I wanted. I counted myself lucky. If I had to drink, I preferred whiskey to gin. I waited for the bartender to walk over with the glass, giving him a smile as he delivered my drink and left.

  “Don’t waste your time.” Knight twisted his lips into a bitter mockery of politeness. “You should know you’re barking up the wrong tree. You’re not my type.”

  “How fortunate neither of us is looking to go out on a date.”

  There was a certain impish attractiveness to Knight’s face when he smiled. The glitter to his eyes, however, suggested his smile wasn’t all that nice.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. But lest you think I’m being rude, to old friends.” Knight lifted his glass in a toast.

  Something tightened around my throat and brought an unexpected sting of tears to my eyes. “To old friends,” I said in a voice as smoky as the pub. When in Rome. To set Knight at ease, I took a sip of my drink and raised my eyebrows at the rich smooth flavor. It was pre-war whiskey. The good stuff. Most bars couldn’t carry it these days.

  Seconds ticked away on my wristwatch. Just when I was about to speak, curiosity got the better of his self-control. “Okay, I give up. What do you want with me? You aren’t here to seduce me, at least, not in the straightforward Mata Hari kind of way.”

  An involuntary smile crept across my face at his words. “What makes you so sure I don’t just want to have a drink with you?”

  “You made the rookie mistake of calling me by name.” Knight tapped his upper lip as he studied me with the focused concentration of a scientist examining a new, strange specimen. “If you planned to charm me with your wiles, you’d have at least pretended to meet me by accident. You passed up several men to sit with me, but have admitted you’re not here on a date. I know your type. You’re cut crystal and canapes with a Walther PPK in your handbag.” Even under the influence, a dangerous intelligence glinted in his eyes.

  “My, you must lead an exciting life. I prefer the Baby Browning. It fits in the purse better. On the other hand, the Colt .45 isn’t bad for day wear.” So he thought I was a spy, eh? I could work with that. “The better question might be what brings you here, Dr. Knight?”

  “Don’t you mean what keeps me here?” In a matter of seconds, the puckish grin at my rejoinder melted as though made of wax. “Ghosts. The ghosts of old friends, lost loves, and better times.” He nodd
ed at the surrounding benches, as though they were full of people only he could see. His gaze came back to rest on my face. “I’m tired, Miss Bishop. So if you don’t mind, I’m not in the mood for conversation. I’d rather sit this one out.” He took another long pull from his glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He set the tumbler down with a decided thump.

  I’d heard that argument before. Heard it and understood it intimately, knew what it felt like to be so tired, so weary of struggling that even my bones hurt. So heartsick I just wanted to go home and curl up under a blanket, but “home” was a cheap room in a boarding house for single ladies. I also knew if I wanted to see changes in my life, I was the only one who could make them happen. “If our boys had chosen to ‘sit this one out’ during World War II, the world would now be under Axis control.”

  By the way his jaw tightened, I knew I’d hit a nerve. Goodness, that glare could have been registered as a lethal weapon.

  “Those days are done. My part in that is over. Ask anyone at Cornell. Washed-up Boy Genius.” His words became even more slurred as he spoke, as if to reinforce the reputation.

  “My boss doesn’t think so. He wants to offer you a job.”

  Had I thought his glare lethal before? Pure hatred boiled in his eyes. He pressed his fingertips onto the table and leaned forward, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “The last man to offer me work wouldn’t take no for an answer. I said no just the same. But then you know that, don’t you? You know everything about me, right? You know what color my socks are and how I like my eggs cooked and the name of the cat I had when I was a child.” His words crackled with hostility.

  Too late, I realized I’d started something I had to see through now. I would not go back to Ryker with excuses. Nettled, I answered the part of the question I knew.

  “Inky,” I said. “Though if you had a cat today, I suspect you’d name it Schrodinger.”