The Union Club Mysteries

by Asimov, Isaac

  I said, "That's harder to do than you think, ma'am. Can you think of any reason she might have wanted to disappear?"

  "No," said Mrs. Harkness sharply.

  "Was she married?"

  "No, but she did have a couple of young men in her life. After all, she was a good-looking woman—five inches taller than I am and slim. She took after her father's side."

  "Might she have been pregnant?"

  Mrs. Harkness nearly snorted. "Of course not. She was a very methodical and systematic person. Even before she went off to live by herself, she was on the pill and owned a diaphragm. She was not one to take chances."

  "Accidents happen even to people who don't take chances—"

  Mrs. Harkness said sharply, "Then, if she didn't want a baby, she would have had an abortion. This is not fifty years ago. Neither pregnancy nor illegitimacy is much worried about these days. They certainly offer no reason to disappear."

  "True enough, ma'am," I admitted. "Please forgive an elderly man for being behind the times.—Let me ask you, then, to describe your daughter to me. Tell me about her habits, her schooling, anything that might give me any way of identifying her—even the name of her dentists and doctors, if you know them, and even if they treated her years ago."

  Her tears began to flow again. "You think she's dead?"

  "Not at all," I said as gently as possible. "I merely want as much information as I can get in order to cover all eventualities. For instance, I would like several photographs, if you have them."

  It took her quite awhile to give me enough information, and then I let her go.

  And I went to the police. I had to. They had files of disappearances and, what's more, had it all computerized.

  The head of Missing Persons owed me a favor. Several, in fact. That didn't mean he enjoyed taking time out to help me, but he did it anyway.

  "Philadelphia," he said, "and about March of last year. Five feet eight inches tall—" He muttered other facets of the description as he punched the computer keyboard. It took him less than a minute. He looked up and said, "Nothing!"

  "How can that be?" I said. "She's a person. She's corporeal. She existed."

  The lieutenant grunted. "Disappearance by itself doesn't mean a thing. They don't get into our records unless someone reports them missing. The parents never did till they came to you. There were no other relatives to do so, apparently, and no lover or friend who was close enough to notice she was gone—or to care."

  I said, "How about unsolved murders? Any appearances of an unidentified body at the time she disappeared?"

  "Not likely," said Delaney. "These days it's pretty hard for a body to be unidentified unless it is hacked up and key portions are hidden or destroyed. But I'll check." And after a while he said, "Only one who could even vaguely qualify and she was black. I gather the one you're interested in isn't black."

  "No."

  "My guess, then, is that she did go to Europe. The mother's checking of the airlines means nothing. The daughter may have gone under an assumed name, for instance, and she may still be there, or she may have died there—and, in either case, she is certainly out of our jurisdiction. Maybe the Philadelphia police—"

  I interrupted. "Why on earth should she leave under an assumed name?"

  "She might have been involved in something criminal, or—" Then he stopped and said, "Oh, boy!"

  "What now?"

  "We had an appearance in this city at the time of your gal's disappearance. Right height, slim—"

  "Where is she? Who is she?"

  "I don't know. She just disappeared, too."

  I brought out the photographs again. "Is this she?"

  He looked at them briefly. "Can't say. She avoided notice. She wore a wig, dark glasses, muffling clothes. It's possible she was a member of a terrorist gang. We were about to close in, when she disappeared."

  "There's no indication," I said, "that the young woman I'm looking for had any political or social interests that would lead to terrorist activity."

  The lieutenant snorted. "All you have is what her mother told you, and her mother has known nothing about her for years now."

  "How much do you know?"

  He wasn't listening. His lips had gone thin and he said, half to himself, "The FBI is moving in, after our force had done the work. If we can pull it off, before they can—"

  "Well," I said impatiently, "what do you know?"

  He concentrated on me again, with an effort. "We've gone through her quarters thoroughly. We weren't in time to get her, but when we know all the objects with which a person surrounds herself, we can't help but know a great deal about the person.

  "For instance, we have a picture here of a woman who was intensely feminine. She had an imposing battery of makeup, from hair tint to toenail polish. Would you believe she had separate polish for fingers and toes?"

  I said dryly, "Perhaps all that is not so much a matter of femininity as paraphernalia for disguise."

  "She had flowered toilet paper."

  "What?"

  "Toilet paper with floral designs on each sheet. Is that for disguise? Or is it just feminine? She was methodical, too. She had an ample supply of everything. Nothing without reserves."

  "But she left without taking anything. Why was that?"

  "Desperation," said the lieutenant grimly. "She left only an hour before we arrived. There must have been a leak, and when we locate the leaker, he will set records for regrets.—But for now, we will have to get your Mrs. Harkness to make an identification."

  "From what?" I asked. "From your list of belongings?"

  "Certainly. According to you, Mrs. Harkness described her daughter as feminine and methodical. That fits. She can tell us if her daughter ever used floral toilet paper or toenail polish. She can tell us if the shade of lipstick and the brand of panty hose were the shade and the brand her daughter would wear. If she gives the right answers, I may have a name, a face, and medical records to apply to the terrorist, and that will put me neatly one up on the FBI."

  I was looking over the list of belongings—-clothes of all sorts, cosmetics, knickknacks, towels, shampoos, soap, canned food, cutlery, drugstore items for headaches and minor infections, combs, cotton-tipped swabs, mouthwash, pills of various legitimate sorts, foods of various kinds in the refrigerator, books listed by name and title. Clearly, nothing had been omitted. Kitchen matches and toothpicks and dental floss. Some bottles of wine but no smoking paraphernalia, incidentally—but then, young Miss Harkness did not smoke, according to her mother.

  I put down the list and said, "Lieutenant, let me stop you from embarrassing yourself—perhaps fatally—vis-avis the FBI. Your alleged terrorist is not my client's daughter." "Oh? You can tell that from the list of belongings?" "Exactly! We are talking of two different women." I was right, of course. Using my information, the lieutenant put the FBI on the right track, instead of the wrong, and was commended rather than laughed at. I may have consulted the police, you see, but they just ended up owing me one more. They caught the terrorist in three days and she was not Miss Harkness.

  Griswold took a brisk swig at his scotch and soda, and then mopped his mustache with a handkerchief that was, perhaps, a shade less white than the mustache. He looked smug.

  Jennings said, "Come on, Griswold. We make nothing of this, as you well know."

  "Indeed?" said Griswold with affected surprise. "I told you, I believe, that Mrs. Harkness's daughter was not yet thirty, and was sexually active? Did I not also rattle off many things on the list of possessions of the terrorist and was there not an important omission?"

  "What omission?" demanded Jennings.

  "The terrorist seemed both feminine and methodical, yet there was not included in the list of contents of her apartment anything in the way of tampons or sanitary napkins. No woman not quite thirty with Miss Harkness's methodical character could conceivably be without an ample supply. That the terrorist lacked any at all was proof enough that she was probably past the men
opause, and over fifty—and so she proved to be."

  I said, "Well, then, what was the story on Miss Harkness? Did you find her?"

  "That," said Griswold with great dignity, "is another story."

  To Contents

  Sending a Signal

  "Have you noticed," said Baranov, looking up from his paper, "that everyone is sending a signal these days. No one says anything. Everything is a signal."

  Jennings, who was sipping at a dry martini languidly, said, "It's part of the thriller mentality. We're flooded with tales of espionage and intrigue and it's just impossible for us to stoop to ordinary communication. Everything is code."

  "Everything is devious," I said. "We live in a public-relations world and you don't want to spoil your image. Wallace started it in his first presidential campaign. He asked voters to 'send a signal' to Washington. In other words, if they voted for Wallace they would send an unspoken signal to the effect that they were for white supremacy without actually putting that vicious view into actual words."

  Griswold, who had been unusually peaceful and who hadn't even been snoring, stared at us as though he hadn't ever slept in his life. He said, rather harshly, "Surely, some of you must live in the real world. Everything we say, everything we do, every twitch of a muscle, every slip of the tongue is a signal of some sort, and always has been. You don't suppose we communicate only by formal language, do you? The wise man must learn to interpret everything !"

  "By wise man," I said sardonically, "you mean, of course, yourself?"

  "I certainly don't mean one of you three," said Griswold. "I remember a case in point—"

  * * *

  It was 1966 [said Griswold] and the Department was greatly harried. I was called in by the chief, which was itself a signal (speaking of signals) of the Department's desperation, for I was never used but as a last resort. They used to say I wasn't reliable, by which they meant that I disagreed with them half the time, which was bad; that I was vocal about it, which was worse; and that I usually proved right in the end, which was, of course, the worst.

  But now the chief was willing to consult me. There was, at that time, as you may recall, a gathering crisis in the Middle East, and the United States had to be very careful in its support of Israel. We were not yet dependent on Middle Eastern oil, but we were just on the edge of becoming so.

  And, apparently, one of our own operatives was not to be trusted. The Arab states had a window into the heart of our policy determination, and the Department knew that the Arabs had either placed one of their own agents in the Department, or had seduced one of ours. The Department even had the code name for the agent, whether placed or seduced. It was "Granite" and the Arabs used that word in English.

  "How did you find that out?" I asked.

  The chief smiled crookedly. "At the moment, that is not important for you to know. Take it as given."

  A code name is, of course, useful in that the side using the agent knows with whom it is dealing, while the other side does not. The other side cannot translate code name into real name. As in any code, however, there are possibilities for breakage.

  The chief said, "From the nature of the information that is known to have leaked, suspicion focuses on five of our agents. It would be helpful if we could have a reasonable idea as to which it is likely to be, and quickly, too. We could put all five out of action, of course, but in that case, we rid ourselves of four good agents, and if we keep it up for long, we cloud four careers unjustifiably and produce stains that may not wipe off."

  "Do I know these agents?"

  The chief looked thoughtful. "Perhaps not," he said. "As you know, you don't work very closely with us. So I will give you their names, and tell you something about each."

  "Good thinking," I said sardonically. "It's hard to come to a decision on the basis of no information at all—even for me."

  The chief flushed, but let it go. He said, "The first agent is Saul Stein. Father, Abraham Stein. Mother's maiden name, Sarah Levy. Wife's maiden name, Jessica Travers. Born, New York City, 1934. Attended New York University. Majored in Semitic studies. Speaks Arabic and Hebrew fluently."

  I said, "I presume he's Jewish."

  "Yes."

  "Then doesn't it seem ridiculous to suppose he would be secretly working against Israel?"

  "Not necessarily ridiculous," said the chief. "Not all Jews are Zionists. And how do we know he is Jewish, for that matter, when he may have carefully built up a false identity. It's something we're checking into, but we have to move carefully. Unjustified suspicion is exactly what we want to avoid, if we can."

  "Is he circumcised?"

  "Yes. So are Muslims. So are millions of Christians. He has a thorough knowledge of Judaism and is observant, but that might be part of the cover."

  "His wife doesn't have an obviously Jewish name. Is she a Gentile?"

  "By birth. She converted after marriage. It looks almost too good, when you stop to think of it."

  I grunted noncommittally. "Who's next?"

  "A woman, actually. Roberta Ann Mowery. Father, Jason Mowery, a two-term congressman back in the forties. Mother, Betty Benjamin. Husband, Daniel Domenico. Born, Fairfax, Virginia, 1938. Attended Rad-cliffe and majored in economics. Rather a forceful woman."

  "Is her mother Jewish? Betty Benjamin?"

  "Not Jewish. Methodist. So is Miss Mowery."

  "She uses her maiden name, does she?" "It's her legal name. She married on the condition she keep her own name."

  "Has she any motive for treason? What kind of congressman was her father?"

  "Absolutely clean record. Straight arrow. Still, Mowery is one of these women who's convinced there's prejudice against her for being a woman and that it's working against her at every step—"

  "There is, isn't there?"

  The chief cleared his throat. "Not as much as she thinks. It's really personal prejudice. She's harsh and overbearing and no one likes her, but she's a damned good agent, so we keep her on. Still, she could feel enough resentment to want to strike back. She could be that kind."

  "Number three?"

  "John Wesley Thorndyke. Also Methodist, as you can guess from his name. His father is a Methodist preacher, Richard Arnold Thorndyke. His mother's maiden name, Patricia Jane Burroughs. Thorndyke was born in Olympia, Washington, in 1931, and attended the University of Washington. He majored in philosophy and, for a while, flirted with the idea of entering the ministry himself. Strongly religious and devoutly interested in what he persists in calling 'the Holy Land.' He's not one of our most brilliant agents, but he has guts and he is most dependable."

  "Is he so dependable that you find it impossible for him to be a double agent?"

  "No one is that dependable. Suppose his strong religious emotion is enough to make him feel that it is blasphemous to have the Holy Land in Jewish hands."

  "Would he feel better if it were in Muslim hands?"

  "It is possible that he would like to see the region destabilized to the point where it can be placed under an international body representing all three faiths to which it is holy—we've actually had a report that he's said so at one time, advancing it as an ideal, rather than as a practical possibility—but who knows? As a double agent, he may feel that is the ideal he is working toward."

  "And number four?" "That would be Leigh Garrett, Jr. Father is Senior, obviously. His mother's maiden name is Josephine O'Connell. He was born in Concord, New Hampshire, in 1925, and attended Dartmouth, where he majored in chemistry. He works at the scientific end of things with us. His family is Catholic, but he himself is not observant."

  "Any reason you might suspect him?"

  "Well, he's extremely conservative and if he's not a John Bircher, he has definite sympathies with them."

  "I wouldn't think," I said grimly, "that this would bother the Department?"

  The chief said stolidly, "Not if it doesn't affect his work, even though we don't welcome extremes of any kind. Emotionality is not something that is
useful in our work. There is reason to think that Garrett is anti-Semitic, for instance."

  "It's not uncommon."

  "To be sure, but the question is—is he sufficiently anti-Semitic to want to see Israel destroyed by another set of Semites, the Arabs, even though Department policy is to do what it can to insure Israel's survival. We can't be sure of that."

  "Then pass on to number five."

  "The fifth is an older man, Jeremiah Miller. He was born in 1908 in Minneapolis, and attended the University of Colorado, where he majored in English literature. He tried writing, but got nowhere and he joined the Department before World War II. He had leave of absence to do some fighting and had a commendable battle record. He was wounded at Anzio. His parents are dead, and he's unmarried. He's an Episcopalian and a churchgoer."

  I said, "He's been with the Department for nearly thirty years, and he put his life on line in battle. Can't you eliminate him as a possibility?"

  "No, we can't. He lacks the spark that is required for advancement and he has seen a number of younger men promoted over his head. In fact, we're thinking of early retirement for him, and a half-pay pension—and he knows it." "And he resents it?"

  "Wouldn't you? His parents are dead. No siblings. No wife. He's alone in the world, and there's nothing to distract his mind from any bitterness he may be feeling. Besides, there's the question of money. His pay is not high. His pension would be less. He's too old to make a new start of any kind. So it may be that he can be bought."

  The chief seemed to brood a bit. "That's the trouble, you see. Each one of the five has a motive—a different motive in each case, and there's no way of determining which motive is the strongest, or which motive has been translated into actual action. Yet we have to get a handle on this, and right away. Things are moving rapidly in the Middle East and, in a matter of days, we'll have to cut out all five, if we can't narrow it down."