She forced a smile. “Do you mean professionally or personally?”
“Both.”
“How about Nick?”
“Academic background. Shaky from a security point of view. Never trust an egghead. Also, he’s stayed too long on a job he doesn’t seem to like. Very suspicious.”
“The Grenvilles? Claudia?”
“Joan Grenville’s energies are directed toward betraying Tom Grenville. Tom Grenville gives the outward impression that his idea of oral sex is talking to E. F. Hutton. But underneath, there’s a quite different sexual persona, and this may be indicative of other types of impersonation. As for Claudia, never trust a foreigner.”
They walked around the skating rink. Katherine stopped in front of the RCA Building. “Do you think I had something to do with that man last night?”
“The thought occurred to me.”
“But I’ve been pushing for you to join us.”
“True. But if I were under suspicion, I too would push for an outside man. Diverts suspicion. But I’d be certain he met his end if he seemed too sharp.”
“You’re not that sharp.” She smiled.
Abrams held the door open for her and they entered the lobby of the RCA Building.
Abrams said, “But for the sake of argument, if someone did try to murder me, then that would prove I was real sharp, wouldn’t it?”
She suppressed a laugh. “Maybe. By the way, murder, as you know, is a legal word connoting wrongdoing. If someone tried to kill you, they may be, as you suggested, just patriots doing their duty to the people.”
He smiled tightly and thought, Bitch.
28
The main concourse level of the RCA Building was pristine Art Deco, thought Abrams, another prewar time warp but strangely modern after half a century, like a set in a Flash Gordon movie.
The lower concourse had a coffee shop where Abrams sometimes sat and watched the skaters in the sunken rink through a plate glass window. The upper mezzanine held shops, as did the main concourse. Abrams had once noticed a shop that specialized in military artifacts and Americana: pictures, statues, plaques, and such. There were bronze busts of General Donovan for sale, whose principal customers he thought, must be young attorneys at Donovan Leisure, O’Brien, Kimberly, or one of the dozen or so other firms with OSS connections. Presumably these upward-bound lawyers placed the bust in a small office shrine tucked between file cabinets. Abrams smiled at the thought of a lunch-hour group of young lawyers genuflecting in front of the bust.
Katherine said, “Is that a smile I see? Did you just remember something unpleasant? Perhaps a close friend is sick?”
Abrams looked at her and let his smile widen. “God knows why, but I like you.”
“Makes my day.” She walked to the elevator and stopped at a small desk. She wrote their names and destination in the weekend book. They rode up and got off on the forty-fourth floor, which was wholly occupied by O’Brien’s firm. A private guard in the corridor nodded to her in recognition and indicated yet another sign-in book on a rostrum. Abrams said, “I’m glad I didn’t stop in to use the bathroom.”
Katherine seemed not to hear as she studied the book. A few attorneys had come in, she noted, and Arnold had signed in at 8:00 A.M.
She and Abrams walked down the long, turning corridor and stopped in front of the steel door marked DEAD FILES. She knocked.
Abrams said, “Will Arnold let me in?”
She smiled. “I’ll use my charm.” She knocked again. From behind the door they heard the shrill whistle of a teakettle, a furiously boiling teakettle that should be taken off the burner.
Abrams reached out and turned the knob. The door opened with its familiar unoiled creak. Abrams peered inside.
Katherine brushed quickly past him and stepped into the room. Abrams pulled her back and drew his revolver. Neither spoke. The copper kettle sat on a glowing red electric ring, steam shooting from its spout.
Katherine’s eyes adjusted to the uneven illumination and focused on the body lying in a pool of lamplight beside the camp table. Abram’s eyes darted around the dimly lit stacks of file cabinets. They both listened, but there was no sound except the whistling kettle.
Abrams kept his revolver by his side and approached the body.
Arnold Brin, dressed in shirt sleeves and gray slacks, lay on his stomach, his head to one side and his cheek resting on a disarrayed tie. The tie, noticed Abrams, was a blue hue that closely matched the color of Arnold’s face. Arnold Brin’s tongue protruded from his open mouth and touched the tie. The eye that Abrams could see was wide open. Abrams knelt beside the body and touched the cheek. “Warm. About an hour, or less.”
Katherine felt her legs shaking and slumped into a chair, then, realizing it was Arnold’s, quickly stood and leaned back against a file cabinet. “Oh . . .” her voice was barely audible. “. . . Oh, my God . . .”
Abrams looked back at the camp desk. Tea things were strewn around, and a bakery bag of tea biscuits lay on the floor beside the desk. Abrams got down on all fours, his eyes inches from the dead man’s face. He reached behind, took the desk lamp and set it on the floor. He examined the open eye, then forced open Arnold’s stiffening jaws, peered inside, sniffed, then stood, replacing the lamp.
Katherine still stood against the cabinet, her eyes shut, and Abrams could see moisture around her lids. He surveyed the table again, examining the kettle, the porcelain pot, and loose tea. He picked up one of the biscuits and smelled it. “It was probably suffocation, but I don’t think it was brought on by poison.”
Katherine opened her eyes. “What . . . ?”
“Apparently what happened”—Abrams shut off the electric burner—“he never brewed the tea, obviously. That might have saved him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He began eating one of those large dry biscuits, without butter or jam. . . . His mouth and perhaps throat were dry—saliva output is diminished in older persons. Perhaps his throat muscles hadn’t done any food-swallowing since last night . . . in people his age this is not an uncommon accident.”
“Accident?”
“He choked to death on a biscuit. I can see part of it lodged in his throat.”
She stared at Abrams, then at Arnold. She didn’t speak for some time, then said, “Do you believe that?”
“No. He was murdered. One of the best I’ve seen.” Abrams rubbed his chin, then said, “He was held by at least two men who probably wore padded gloves so they wouldn’t leave fingerprints or marks on his skin. They may have put alum in his mouth to dry him up, and maybe poured a topical anesthetic in to dull the senses in his throat. Probably, though, they just held his esophagus in a tight grip so he couldn’t swallow. They rammed the biscuit down his throat and held him until he suffocated to death. Nice people.”
Katherine took a deep breath.
Abrams said matter-of-factly, “The medical examiner will have a bad time with this one. But if he knows he’s looking at murder, he may turn something up.” Abrams lit a cigarette. “I wonder why these people are bothering with phony accidents?” He thought a moment, then said, “Probably to buy time. So all the alarms don’t start going off automatically.”
She nodded, “Partly true. But also, the preferred method is to make it look like an accident. There’s a certain pride . . . in coming up with refinements. . . . It’s standard tradecraft.”
“Really? Are there awards?” He threw his cigarette down and stepped on it. “Well, this is the fourth time there’s been no clear evidence of murder. Carbury vanished without a trace, Brompton Hall burned, Arnold accidentally choked. Christ, even a cop can see a pattern here.”
She looked at him. “The fourth?”
“Oh . . . my drunken stumble from the roof.”
“You were on the roof. That man tried to kill you.”
Abrams nodded.
“What . . . how the hell did you get on the roof?”
“Fire escape.”
&nb
sp; “You know what I mean.”
“It might be more revealing to question how I came to be at the town house in the first place.”
She hesitated, then said, “Claudia suggested it to me. She likes you.”
Abrams didn’t answer.
Katherine added, “To be honest and more precise, Mr. O’Brien and Peter also suggested you stay there, quite independently of Claudia and each other, I presume.”
Abrams again said nothing.
Katherine seemed to be coming out of the shock of seeing Arnold’s body. Her tone was curt. “But what brought you to the roof?”
“Fate.”
She said, “You know . . . Tony . . . it’s not always a good policy to keep your own counsel. Sometimes people need help.”
“I suppose, Kate, that anyone who deals with you people needs all the help he can get. But not from the source of the problem.”
She seemed put off, but said evenly, “Why would anyone want to kill you?”
“I don’t know, but it’s always flattering.” Abrams picked up the telephone on Arnold’s desk and dialed the town house.
A man’s voice answered, “Yeah?” which was, Abrams knew, how a detective answered the phone at the scene of the crime. Abrams said, “Captain Spinelli.”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Abrams.”
“Yeah. Hold on.”
“Yeah.”
Spinelli came on the line. “How’d this happen, Abrams?”
“Beats me. Listen, I hate to ruin your Saturday, but I have another corpse.”
“Get off it.”
“RCA Building. Firm of O’Brien, et al. Room marked ‘Dead Files.’ The guard will direct you. Sign in.”
There was a long silence, then Spinelli said, “What the fuck is going on with you? What are you, Abrams, some kind of dark cloud?”
“Let’s have lunch.”
“My ass. You stay away from me. No . . . stay there.”
“Sorry, have to run. Listen, it looks like an accidental food choking, but it’s not. Tell the ME, okay? And remember, this is still funny stuff. Watch your ass. Arrivederci.” He hung up and turned to Katherine. “Is it worth looking for files, or should we assume they’re gone?”
She was studying the file sign-out book. “Arnold removed fourteen files”—she looked around Arnold’s work area—“but they’re not here.”
Abrams nodded.
Katherine thought a moment. “Arnold knew at least one of the people or he wouldn’t have unlocked the door.”
“True.”
“Someone who had access to this room.”
“How many people is that?”
“Dozens. English, Americans, some French, and even a few Germans. Plus a team of Israeli Nazi-hunters.”
“Do you have that list?”
She looked at Arnold. “He kept it in his mind. Every group had only their partial list.”
Abrams thought a moment, then said, “He didn’t know he was in danger immediately. He spoke to the person or persons he let in. . . . They would have exchanged words about the stack of files he was collecting. Perhaps they let him complete the task. They knew what he was doing, why he was here on a Saturday. They knew you’d be along shortly.”
Her eyes suddenly darted into the dark recesses of the aisles of cabinets. She spoke in a hushed tone. “Could they still be here?”
He shook his head. “I doubt it.” He thought again. “At some point, Arnold may have sensed he was in danger . . . and he may have—” Abrams stared at the desk a moment, then carefully moved some of the papers and tea things on the desk. “Nothing here . . . they would have spotted any message he tried to leave.” Abrams turned over the body, quickly and expertly examining the pockets, shoes, socks, and clothing. “Nothing I can find. . . .”
Katherine stood near him. She said, “Maybe we should . . . look around.”
“No. Let’s go before New York’s finest arrive.”
They left the room and walked quickly down the brightly lit corridor. At the elevator bank, Katherine approached the guard. “Did anyone other than Arnold Brin go down this corridor?”
The guard shook his head. “But then, there’re fire stairs down there too.”
Katherine looked at the sign-in book. Four names appeared over hers and Abrams’: Arnold Brin’s and the three attorneys’. “Are these men still in the office?”
“I think so. I never saw them leave.”
“Thank you.” She looked at Abrams as they waited for the elevator. “Arnold would not have let any of those three men in.”
Abrams nodded. “It doesn’t seem difficult to get past that guard. Do you know him?”
“Yes. He’s been here for years . . . which doesn’t mean very much.”
“No,” said Abrams, “it doesn’t.” He thought a moment. “Cops ask questions like that—new employees, new domestic help . . . prime suspects. In your game, people are planted two decades before to unlock a door or throw a light switch at a critical moment.”
“That’s somewhat exaggerated, but—”
“Still, Spinelli will check out the guard and the three attorneys.”
The elevator came and they entered. Katherine said, “I feel terrible about Arnold. He wouldn’t have been here if I hadn’t asked him to come in.”
“Right.”
She looked at him. “You could be more sympathetic.”
“It was a stupid comment. If today weren’t Saturday, it would be Friday. If Hitler’s father had used a condom, Arnold wouldn’t be in charge of World War Two British archives in Rockefeller Center. So what?”
They rode down in silence and stepped off on the mezzanine. Abrams said, “I don’t want to run into Spinelli in the lobby.” They walked to the west end of the mezzanine, descended by a staircase, and exited onto Sixth Avenue. They began walking south.
The sun was warmer, and the avenue was beginning to come alive. Tourists with cameras were heading toward Radio City Music Hall and joggers jostled with pedestrians. Abrams glanced at Katherine’s jogging shoes and saw they were well worn. “Do you run?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever do Brooklyn?”
“Yes. Prospect Park. Sometimes across the Brooklyn Bridge to the Heights Promenade.”
Abrams said, “I can do the Prospect Park run, about twelve miles. Let’s run it someday.”
“How about Monday morning?”
“Am I getting Memorial Day off?”
“Sure.” She smiled.
They walked in silence for a few blocks, then Katherine said, “Well, what now?”
He took a while to answer, then replied, “I have to get back to the town house, get my tux and return it to Murray’s. Then I have to get back to Brooklyn, check my mail, pack a few things if I’m staying on Thirty-sixth Street, and—”
“That’s so . . . banal . . . mundane.”
“Most of life is like that.”
“People are dead. There’s a threat to national security—”
“Napoleon, on campaign in Austria, sent a long letter to his tailor in Paris complaining about the fit of his underwear. Life goes on.”
“I suppose. Listen, I’m having lunch with Nick. Join us.”
“Can’t.”
“I’d like to discuss these new developments: Brompton Hall, Arnold’s death, the attempt on your life.”
“We’ve discussed too much already. Let’s wait for Spinelli’s reports and whatever they’ve got in England. I’d rather deal in facts for a change of pace.”
She nodded. “Well . . . can’t you think of anything we should be doing in the meantime?”
“I have something at the dry cleaners, too. Also, we should try not to get murdered. Look over your shoulder a lot.”
They stopped at 42nd Street. Abrams said, “I’m going back to the town house. Where are you heading?”
“If someone tried to kill you there, why are you going to stay there?”
“Would I be safer in my p
lace?”
“No.”
“So? Take it easy, okay? Call me about the run tomorrow.”
“Wait.” She took a slip of paper from her bag and handed it to him.
He looked at it. In her handwriting was written JFE 78-2763.
She said, “That was written in Arnold’s hand in the file sign-out ledger. It is not a file number. Does it mean anything to you?”
Abrams stared at the slip of paper. “Looks like . . . something familiar. . . . I can’t think of what, though.”
Katherine said, “His murderers were sloppy not to read his file ledger. You were right—Arnold realized something was wrong, and tried to leave a message. There’s no other reason for him to put those letters and numbers on a page that I was supposed to sign for the files.”
“Sounds logical.”
“You know what those letters and numbers are, Abrams. Don’t bullshit me.”
He smiled and handed the paper back. “Call me Tony.”
“I’ll call you worse than that if you start playing games with me. I’m being straight with you. Do the same with me.”
He held up his hand. “Okay. Cool down. It’s a library call number.”
“Of course. So let’s go to the library and see what book it calls.”
“Which library?”
“The obvious one. Turn left. Walk.”
They turned east into 42nd Street and covered the block to Fifth Avenue quickly. They mounted the steps of the main library between the reclining lions.
Once inside the towering bronze doors, they climbed up the broad staircase, past the second-floor landing, and up to the third-floor Main Reading Room. Abrams gave the librarian the call number.
They waited for their book to be pulled from the stacks. Abrams said, “Tell me about your sister Ann.”
Katherine thought awhile, then replied, “She’s older than me, a bit more serious and scholarly, never married—”
“I’m not looking for a date,” he said brusquely. “What does she do?”
Katherine glanced at him. This reversal of the pecking order was somewhat disconcerting. She said, “Ann works for the National Security Agency. Codes, ciphers, cryptography . . . things like that. Electronic spying. No cloak and dagger, just radios and satellites.”
The Talbot Odyssey Page 20