The Fifth Column

by James Garcia Woods

  “You weren’t there,” Curly said, with conviction. “Sure, we were all drinkin’ together till around eleven, but then you disappeared.”

  “So what are you sayin’? That I went to the church an’ shot the nigg ... an’ shot Sam Johnson?”

  “Hell, course I ain’t sayin’ that.”

  “So what’s the harm in puttin’ down in the statements that we were all together?”

  “I’ll tell you what the harm is,” Curly replied. “You write down what really happened – that you went off ’cos you’d had too much to drink – and that cop from Madrid is gonna think that maybe you ain’t tellin’ the truth, an’ ...”

  “That’s the point!” Ted Donaldson interrupted. “You’ve stood on the picket line, just like me. You know how cops think. If that son-of-a-bitch from Madrid is down here lookin’ for somebody to frame for Sam’s murder, he ain’t gonna choose a rich man like Jim Clay or a college professor like Greg Cum-min’s – he’s gonna try an' pin the rap on an ordinary workin’ man.”

  “...an’ if he thinks you ain’t tellin’ the truth, then he’s gonna put you somewhere on his list of suspects,” Curly continued, as if Donaldson had never spoken. “But if we say you was with us – an’ then somebody else says they noticed you leavin’ the square, the cop’s gonna know that you were lyin’, an’ that’s enough to put you right at the top of his list. An’ not only that – he just might start thinkin’ that the rest of us had somethin’ to do with the murder, too.”

  “Remember that strike back in ’34?” Donaldson asked, with just a hint of panic in his voice. “Remember how that Pinkerton would have busted your head if I hadn’t gotten in the way?”

  “An’ I’d have done the same for you. But this is different – this is a murder investigation.”

  “So you’d sell me down the river?”

  “Only if you deserved it,” Curly argued. “Listen, Ted, we ain’t dealin’ with the New Jersey Police Department here. This cop from Madrid is not workin’ in the interest of the fat-cat landlords an’ property developers. He’s part of the new system of revolutionary justice – of the people’s justice. So if you didn’t kill Sam Johnson – an’ nobody here thinks for a minute that you did – then you got nothin’ to fear by tellin’ the truth.”

  “I liked Sam Johnson,” Donaldson protested. “I was with him when we took that truck to Albacete an’...”

  “An’ a couple of days before he got himself killed, you came damn near to gettin’ in a fight with him.”

  “I didn’t look for that. He was the one askin’ for trouble. I don’t need nobody to tell me how talk to the Yids, especially some ni ...”

  “Especially some nigger?” Curly suggested.

  “Especially some down-home boy who don’t know squat about the way that the Hebes ...”

  “When you write your statement, just put down the truth, Ted,” Curly said firmly. “Do that, an’ you’re gonna be all right.”

  “You still gonna be sayin’ that when they line me up in front of a firin’ squad?” Donaldson asked bitterly.

  And so it went on. A dozen tables – a dozen small islands of argument and discussion, of fears and suspicions. There were those who mourned the loss of Sam Johnson as a friend, and those who mourned for the feeling of solidarity which seemed to have all-but disappeared since his murder. There were a few men who – despite the Party's avowed policy – couldn’t see that the death of one Negro was such a big tragedy, but many more who felt that they had been deprived of a man who they would willingly have followed into battle, and into death. Yet whatever they believed, there were few of them – if any – who were willing to accept James Clay’s assurances that the murderer, whoever he was, was long gone. Perhaps he would be found, and perhaps he wouldn’t, but they were certain – deep within themselves – that Sam Johnson’s killer was still in San Antonio.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It had been chilly enough earlier in the day, but now that night had descended, covering the town in its thick black cloak, the air had acquired real teeth.

  Greg Cummings led Paco and Cindy down a series of narrow twisting streets, finally coming to a halt in front of a bar which nestled in the lee of the crumbling town walls.

  “This is where Sam did most of his drinking,” Cummings said. “He liked the philosophy behind the place.”

  “The philosophy?” Cindy repeated.

  Greg grinned. “A couple of the bars in San Antonio are still owned by the guys who they belonged to before the revolution. But not this one. This is a colectivista bar. Like a lot of the land, it’s owned by the commune, and any profit it makes is for the benefit of everybody.”

  Cummings opened the door, and they stepped into the bar. At the far end was a zinc-topped counter cutting the rest of the room off from the rough stone back wall which formed part of the town's ancient fortifications. Two large barrels – one containing white wine and the other red – stood, like sentries, at either end of the counter. A leg of smoked mountain ham hung from a metal spike on the wall, and stuffed olives bobbed around in a large tin can filled with brine.

  The bar would have looked equally at home in Tordesillas, Olivenza, or any of a thousand other small towns throughout the length and breadth of Spain, Paco thought – but its customers certainly would not have. They were, on the whole, taller than Castilian Spaniards, and most of them were much paler. They sat awkwardly on their stools, as if they did not feel they belonged there.

  As, indeed, they didn’t – Paco reminded himself. Though he knew nothing of their backgrounds, he’d have been willing to wager that a few months earlier they would never even have dreamed they’d be spending the following February in a place as alien to their experience as this.

  “What are you guys going to have to drink?” Cummings asked, acting the host.

  “The drinks can wait until later,” Paco said brusquely. “Who do you think I should talk to?”

  The sandy-haired yanqui looked slightly puzzled. “Excuse me?”

  “You suggested that we went somewhere for a drink, and I told you that we had no time for socializing because we were involved in a murder investigation,” Paco replied. “You said it might help the investigation if we came here to talk to some of the brigadistas. Well, we’re here. Which of the brigadistas would be useful for us to start with?”

  “It’s all business with you, isn’t it?” Cummings asked, giving him a disarming smile.

  “I take my work very seriously,” Paco replied, refusing to let the smile affect him.

  “Sure you do,” Greg Cummings agreed. “And so you should.” He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry if I sounded flippant just now. I guess that seeing Cindy completely out of the blue like this has kinda knocked me off track for a second. But I do appreciate the importance of your task here, and I fully accept that the sooner you get started, the better it will be for all of us.”

  Paco said nothing.

  “In case you didn’t recognize that for what it was, Greg was making an apology, Ruiz,” Cindy said, with a warning edge to her voice.

  Yes, that was exactly what Cummings was doing, Paco accepted. And he, himself, should respond to the man’s apology in the same spirit as it had been offered.

  “This is a difficult situation we find ourselves in here, and we all make mistakes when we’re under pressure,” he said, trying to sound conciliatory. “Shall we wipe the slate clean, and begin again?”

  “Sure,” Cummings said, with an easy graciousness. He glanced around the bar. “If you want to get down to business, then talking to those guys at the table in the corner is probably as good a place as any to start.”

  Paco’s gaze followed the yanqui's. There were three men sitting at the table. One was little more than a kid, the second a black man, and the third the middle-aged man who had suggested back in the town hall that the French might, in some way, be behind Samuel Johnson’s death.

  “That’s strange,” Paco said pensively.

  “What
is?” Greg Cummings asked.

  “That three men who are so obviously different in so many ways should be sitting together.”

  “Ah, so you’ve seen through the charade that our worthy commissar ordered us to put on for you in the council chamber,” Cummings said.

  Despite himself, Paco felt another stab of dislike for the man.

  “It’s my job to see through things,” he said.

  “The fact of the matter is that if you’d been here a few days ago, it wouldn’t have been a charade at all,” Greg Cummings told him. “It’s true that since Sam’s death, all the guys have been sticking to their own kind, but until last Saturday morning, everybody in the battalion pretty much mixed with everybody else without even thinking about it.”

  “So what makes these three carry on like they used to – as if the murder had never happened?” Paco asked.

  “Interesting question. I guess it’s probably because out of all of us, they were the closest to Sam, and so, naturally, they’re taking his death the hardest. Look at the young guy – Bill Turner. He’s doing his best to hide it, but you can tell he’s real cut up.”

  Paco examined the boy. He had blond, straw-like hair, and eyes as big and innocent as a puppy’s. And Greg Cummings was right – his pain was there for all to see.

  “You want me to take you over and introduce you to them?” Cummings suggested.

  “No, we’ll do that ourselves,” Paco replied. “You’re here for a drink – go over to the bar and get yourself one. Tell the barman I’ll pay for it later.”

  It was a clear dismissal, and Cummings recognized it as such. He gave a good-natured shrug, and headed for the bar.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, Ruiz?” Cindy hissed, as soon as Cummings had left them.

  “The matter with me?” Paco repeated, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

  Cindy stamped her foot in exasperation.

  “Greg’s going out of his way to try and help you, and in return you’re treating him as if he’s something that’s just crawled out from under a stone.”

  “Have I embarrassed you?” Paco asked. “I didn’t mean to. Tell me what I said which was wrong, and I promise I won’t make the same mistake again.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Cindy told him. “It’s not the words you use, so much as the way you use them. Even when you say the right things, you sound like you’re on the attack.”

  “We’re looking at the man from two completely different perspectives,” Paco pointed out.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, it is. To you, Greg Cummings is an old friend. To me, he’s just like any other suspect.”

  “Any other suspect!” Cindy said, her anger mounting. “Do you really believe – even for a moment – that Greg could ...”

  “They’re all suspects,” Paco cut in. “Every last one of them. All the brigadistas, all the villagers, people we don’t even know about yet but who could have got in and out of San Antonio without being noticed.”

  “But, as far as you’re concerned, some men are more suspicious than others,” Cindy said bitterly. “Especially if they happen to be friends of mine.”

  She was right – and he knew she was right. If he was not actually strongly suspicious of Greg Cummings, he was at least actively hostile to the man – and Cummings had given him no real reason for that. He was sure that once they got back to their room, they would have a flaming argument, and that – because he was in the wrong – he would end up apologizing.

  Might it not be best to short-circuit the whole process and apologize now? he asked himself.

  Yet though he could form the words in his mind, they refused to come out of his mouth the way he had intended.

  “You think I’m acting in the way I am just because you knew Cummings at college?” he asked, going on the offensive, even though he was sure it was the worst thing he could possibly do.

  “I’m certain you are.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. Not with me. When I’m involved in an investigation, my private life doesn’t exist. Out here in San Antonio, we’re not the lovers we were back in Madrid. We’re not even the friends that you introduced us to Greg Cummings as.”

  “So just what are we?”

  “I’m a policeman and you’re my translator, and we’ve both got a job to do. Do you still want to do your job – or should I ask Señorita McBride if she will be willing to take your place?”

  Cindy looked at him as if – at least for that moment – she really hated him.

  “I’ll do it,” she said, in a voice that was almost a hiss.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was only a minute or two since Greg Cummings had left them and gone over to the bar, yet in that short time Paco felt as if he and Cindy had somehow managed to put a million miles between them. But now was not the time to mourn the loss, he told himself angrily. Now was the time to act like the hard, dedicated policeman he had just bragged to Cindy that he always became when he was wrapped up in a case.

  He headed for the table in the corner where Sam Johnson’s three best friends were sitting, aware that, as he and Cindy negotiated their way between the other tables, all the eyes in the room were following their progress – some with interest, but many with suspicion.

  “Would you ask them if it would be all right if we sat down?” Paco said.

  Cindy spoke a few words in English, and the three men nodded. Paco pulled out a stool for her to sit on, but she pointedly ignored the offer and reached for one herself. It was going to be awfully cold in the bed they’d share that night, the ex-policeman thought.

  “So now that we’re here, what do you want to know?” Cindy asked coldly.

  “We could start with their names.”

  The young white man with the straw-colored hair was – as Cummings had already told him – called Bill Turner. The older white man was Sean O’Brien. The black man said his name was Nat Johnson.

  “Johnson!” Paco repeated. “Is he any relation to the victim?”

  “Not that he knows of,” Cindy told him, when she had listened to the black man’s answer. “He says that his great-grandparents probably worked on the same plantation as Sam’s great-grandparents, and the name they both ended up bearing belonged to the man who owned them all. We did that, you know,” she added, a guilty note creeping into her voice. “We robbed the Africans of their own names – names that meant something to them – and we gave them ours instead.”

  Paco shook his head wonderingly. He had thought he’d begun to get some picture of the United States through Cindy, but the more learned, the more he realized that his ignorance was even vaster than the country itself.

  Bill Turner was talking to Cindy. Paco understood none of the words, but he could tell that Turner’s accent was far less clipped and far less precise than Greg Cummings way of speaking.

  “Mr. Turner would like to know what they can do to help you,” Cindy translated.

  “I need to get a clear impression of what kind of man Samuel Johnson was,” Paco said.

  “He was a great man,” Bill Turner replied. “If he’d only lived longer, he could have been a very great man.”

  “Ask him how they met,” Paco said.

  “I met him while we was waitin’ on the dock in New York to hoard the ship that brung us to Europe,” Bill Turner explained to Cindy. “We got to talkin’, an’ we found we got on just fine.” He paused, and shook his head. “I’m not explainin’ things well. It was more than just us gettin’ on – meeting Sam made me look at the world in a whole new way.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I’d always thought nigras didn’t have the same kinda brainpower we had – but Sam, now, he was sharp as a knife. An’ he was funny too. For instance, take what happened when we was boardin’ the ship …”

  The FBI agent stands at the top of the gangplank, his eyes burning with contempt at the sight of the approaching traitors. If it was up to him, he
would arrest them on the spot, throw them in jail and lose the key. But it is not up to him. He has been told the procedure and – like it or not – he must follow it.

  As the two men – one an obvious hayseed, the other a black man – draw level with him, he holds out his hand to halt him.

  “Passport,” he snarls.

  The hayseed hands it over, and agent reads that his name is Bill Turner.

  “Why are you going to France, Mr. Turner?” he demands.

  The hayseed gazes at his shoes and mumbles something.

  “Say that again,” the agent says.

  “Lookin’ for work,’ Bill Turner replies.

  “Why did you say that?” Cindy asked. “Why didn’t you just tell him you were coming to join the International Brigade?”

  Turner laughed. “If I’d done that, ma’am, he’d never have let me board the ship. The government wants to pretend that what’s goin’ on here in Spain ain’t nothin’ to do with the good ol’ USA. An’ it would sure be one hell of a lot easier to do that if there wasn’t no American volunteers here. That’s why our passports was stamped, ‘Not valid for travelin’ in Spain’.”

  “But President Roosevelt is a Democrat,” Cindy protested. “He should be doing all he can to support the democratic govern-ment of Spain.”

  “That’s the way I see it, too, but it seems like he don’t. I guess he thinks he’s got other fish to fry, ma’am. Anyways, as I was tellin’ you…”

  The agent does not believe Bill Turner – Europeans come to America in search of work, not the other way round – but he has no choice but to talk the hayseed’s word.

  He turns to the black man.

  “And what about you, boy? Are you looking for work in France, too?”

  The black man does not stare down at the ground, as Turner has done. Instead, he looks the agent straight in the eye and says, “No, sir. I thought I might just try a spot of skiin’ in the Alps.”

  Bill Turner chuckled. “Imagine that! A nigra from Mississippi, who’d never even seen snow till he moved up north – a colored guy who’d had no more than a couple of bucks in his pocket at any one time – lookin’ that Fed straight in the eye and tellin’ him he was goin’ to try a spot of skiin’. It sounded real funny – but you have to understand that he didn’t do it as no joke.”