The Cryptographer's Dilemma

by Johnnie Alexander

  CHAPTER TEN

  By the time they had arrived at the dormitory, Eloise had agreed to Phillip’s plan to attend church the next day with him, Richard, and Richard’s wife, Patricia. She’d visited several of DC’s churches since arriving in the city. Though she was strong in her own doctrinal beliefs, she appreciated the opportunity to worship in a variety of magnificent cathedrals and historic churches.

  During the service, she sat between Patricia and Phillip, soaking in the gracious hospitality that made her feel less like an outsider and more like a family friend. When they stood for the closing hymn of “How Great Thou Art,” Eloise’s soprano and Phillip’s tenor blended beautifully. The harmony of their voices seemed to wrap around them like a snug cocoon, a near-mystical experience that thrilled Eloise to the tips of her toes.

  After the final prayer, Phillip whispered, “We’ll sing duets when we travel. It’ll be a great way to pass the time.”

  Eloise nodded agreement, feeling a deep satisfaction that he’d been as moved by the intermingling of their voices as she had been.

  Dinner was a scrumptious affair. The one rule seemed to be no shop talk. Patricia wouldn’t allow it and gently admonished both her husband and Phillip if either one veered too close to any work-related topics. Instead, the talk centered around the movie that Phillip and Eloise had seen the night before, the beauty of the cherry blossoms in the spring, which Eloise had missed, and the must-see sights in the nation’s capital.

  After dessert, Richard rose from the table and pulled out his pocket watch. “You’ll excuse us for an hour or so, my dear.”

  “Of course, darling.” Patricia stood and grasped Eloise’s hand. “It’s been simply a delight to meet you. I hope you’ll come again.”

  “I’d love that. Thank you for your hospitality. For everything.”

  Patricia widened her smile to include Phillip then glided from the room. Eloise wasn’t sure she’d ever met anyone with as much poise and elegance. Beside this sophisticated woman, she felt clumsy and dull.

  Before she could allow herself to fall further into such thoughts, Richard gestured toward the opposite doorway. “Shall we?”

  Eloise preceded the men into the room, a square study lined with bookshelves and dominated by a huge desk. A nearby easel held enlarged copies of the two letters. She darted a glance toward Phillip, but the harmonious tenor and congenial dinner companion had disappeared behind the facade of the no-nonsense FBI agent. She took her cue from him, determined to present herself as a professional though she felt like a fraud. Did she really have anything to offer his powerful uncle that could be helpful?

  She breathed a silent prayer. She could do this.

  Richard settled himself behind his desk, and Phillip took a seat across from him. After taking a deep breath, Eloise squared her shoulders and stood by the easel.

  “This typewritten letter, dated January 27, 1942, was allegedly sent from Dorothy Walker of Spokane, Washington, to Señora Ines de Molinali in Buenos Aires, Argentina.” She was telling them information they already knew, but the introduction helped settle her nerves. “The postage was incorrect, so it was examined more closely. In February, the censors forwarded it to the FBI.”

  She pointed to the second paragraph. “This is the important part of the letter. It says:

  ‘I must tell you this amusing story, the wife of an important business associate gave her an old German bisque Doll dressed in a Hulu Grass skirt. It is a cheap horrid thing I do Not like it and wish we did not have to have it about. Well I broke this awful doll last month now the person who gave the doll is coming to visit us very soon. I walked all over Seattle to get someone to repair it, no one at home could or would try the task. Now I expect all the damages to be repaired by the first week in February.’

  Eloise glanced at each man in turn. The moment had come to prove her value to the team.

  “I’m convinced it’s a jargon code,” Eloise said. “The doll refers to a warship that was damaged at Pearl Harbor and taken to the Puget Sound navy yard for repairs.”

  “Do you have any proof?” Phillip asked. “It still sounds to me as if you’re simply substituting a possible meaning where none exists.”

  “What about the second letter?” Richard asked. “The one written by Barbara Clark, who told the local postal director she didn’t write it or mail it.”

  Shaken by Phillip’s lack of confidence, Eloise gave Richard a weak smile. At least he seemed to believe her. “As you know, it was also sent to Señora Molinali. Same address as the first letter. Also typewritten. Argentina sent it back to the sender. Apparently, Señora Molinali moved without leaving a forwarding address.”

  “This is the letter with the New York postmark, right?” Phillip asked.

  “Yes. But Mrs. Clark lives in Springfield, Ohio.” Eloise turned her attention to the letter. “I find this one the more enlightening of the two, particularly this passage:

  ‘You asked me to tell you about my collection a month ago. I had to give a talk to an art club, so I talked about my dolls and figurines. The only new dolls I have are THREE LOVELY IRISH dolls. One of these three dolls is an old Fisherman with a Net over his back—another is an old woman with wood on her back and the third is a little boy. Everyone seemed to enjoy my talk. I can only think of our sick boy these days. You wrote me that you had sent a letter to Mr. Shaw, well I want to see MR. SHAW he distroyed Your letter, you know he has been Ill. His car was damaged but is being repaired now. I saw a few of his family about. They all say Mr. Shaw will be back to work soon.’”

  Phillip joined her at the easel and peered at the letter. “Any ideas on why some of those words are capitalized?”

  “The capitalization definitely draws attention to them.” Again, Eloise pointed to each phrase as she discussed its possible meaning. “I’ve studied naval ships and naval terms as part of my code training. The ‘fisherman with a net over his back’ could refer to an aircraft carrier. They have antitorpedo nettings on their sides.”

  “Interesting interpretation.” Richard nodded approval.

  “And the old woman?”

  “The old woman carrying wood could refer to an older battleship, one made out of wood.”

  “What about the third ship?” Phillip’s tone suggested he was playing along but still not convinced. “The little boy?”

  “I can’t be sure of that one. But my guess is that it’s a destroyer.”

  The corners of Phillip’s lips turned up into a spontaneous grin. “Because little boys like to destroy things?”

  “Because of the reference to Mr. Shaw.” Eloise beamed as her excitement grew. This was the moment she’d been waiting for—the vital information she wanted to give Richard. Information that would prove to Phillip that she knew what she was doing. “The USS Shaw, a destroyer, was in dry dock at Pearl Harbor. About two weeks before this letter was written, it was undergoing repairs in San Francisco.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Phillip asked doubtfully.

  “Absolutely.” She held his gaze, refusing to back down from his skepticism. “I have contacts in the navy, you know. And don’t worry. I didn’t say why I wanted to know.”

  Phillip pressed his lips together and slowly nodded. “‘Mr. Shaw will be back to work soon.’ I admit it’s clever.”

  “Perhaps a little too clever.” Eloise turned back to the easel. “My guess is that distroyed is purposefully misspelled to draw attention to it. And then look at the next word. Your is capitalized when it shouldn’t be.” Eloise jabbed at each word as she said it. “‘Distroyed Your.’ Run the words together and you get—”

  Together, she and Phillip said, “‘Destroyer.’”

  “What do you think of the jargon code now?” Eloise asked him. She tried but failed to keep a sense of superiority from her tone. Phillip didn’t seem to notice. He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile on his face.

  “I think you’re a genius.”

  Eloise’s cheeks warmed at h
is praise, but she didn’t let her embarrassment spoil her sense of accomplishment. She shifted her gaze to Richard. He finished jotting a note and placed his pen in the holder. “Good work, Eloise. I will need to confirm your information about the USS Shaw. Protocol, you understand, not because I doubt you. I believe you interpreted this letter correctly.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “With this information, I believe we need to speak with Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Walker as soon as possible.” Richard settled back into his opulent leather chair. “I’ll have my secretary make your travel arrangements. You’ll need to be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. Both of you.”

  Eloise widened her eyes. “You mean we’re leaving today?” She wasn’t prepared to go anywhere, especially not a trip that could last a week or longer. A few of her belongings were at the academy dormitory at Quantico, but everything else was in her room behind the Francis Scott Key Bookstore. She needed time to handwash her unmentionables and brush her traveling suit.

  “More likely on Tuesday,” Richard said. He smiled as Eloise let out an audible sigh of relief. “By the way, I received your test scores and instructor evaluations. I must say I’m very pleased, especially considering how much training was crammed into such a limited amount of time.”

  Surely, he was kidding. But nothing in his expression indicated that he was anything but sincere.

  “Did Boyd give her a good evaluation?” Phillip asked, sounding strangely annoyed. Eloise hoped he wouldn’t tell his uncle what she’d said about Lieutenant Boyd not liking women. Why had she told him about that awful experience?

  Richard shrugged. “Prescott’s report was the more pertinent of the two since he spent the most time with Eloise. He said she is a willing student who paid close attention and made significant improvement. However, he does recommend additional time on the range.”

  Thankfully, there wouldn’t be time for that. No sooner had the thought flitted through Eloise’s mind when Phillip spoke up.

  “We could go this afternoon.”

  Eloise widened her eyes. “I don’t see how. I need to go back to the base then to my room.”

  “No more training,” Richard said. “It’s the Lord’s Day. Time for rest and reflection.”

  And time to ready herself for an assignment she’d never have dreamed possible. Everything about the past few weeks, all that she’d learned and studied, seemed surreal somehow, as if the long days had been a strange dream. The future appeared just as surreal. In a day or two, she’d be traveling with a man she barely knew on their hunt for a possible traitor.

  She wished everything that had happened this entire year had been a dream. That she would suddenly wake up in her own bedroom in her own home in Camden Falls. Awaken to the mouthwatering aroma of sizzling bacon, freshly baked muffins, and hot coffee. That she’d join her mother at the breakfast table. And, most important of all, that Allan would be there too.

  But no. That longing was the fantasy. God had planted her feet on an unusual and perhaps even dangerous path. She prayed He’d never leave her side while she was on it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  They arrived in Dayton, Ohio, the nearest metropolitan area to Springfield, in the middle of the night after more than twelve hours on the train. Reservations had already been made for them at a nearby hotel. Eloise practically fell into bed but arose early so she’d be ready in plenty of time to meet Phillip in the lobby. Richard’s secretary also had arranged a car for them.

  The drive took less than an hour. Mrs. Clark lived in a well maintained bungalow on a tree-lined street on the outskirts of the large town. Neatly trimmed hedges bordered the property lines, and flowers adorned the entryway. A blue star banner with two blue stars hung in the window.

  Eloise pasted on a smile while Phillip rang the bell. The woman who opened the door wore a floral apron over a lavender-checked shirtwaist dress. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the two strangers on her doorstep.

  “You’re wasting your time.” Her voice had a good-humored lilt that softened the harsh words. “I have pies in the oven, and I’m not in a buying mood. Now Mr. Bleeker, over there across the street, he’ll buy just about anything from anyone who has a mind to sit a spell with him. You might try persuading him to part with his money.”

  “We aren’t selling anything, ma’am.” Eloise widened her smile, hoping to gain the woman’s confidence. Or at least time to explain their presence before she shut the door in their faces. “We’re looking for Barbara Clark. It’s about a letter that was sent to Argentina.”

  “I’m Barbara Clark.” She folded her arms across her ample chest. “How do you know about that letter?”

  Phillip held up his badge and introduced himself. “I’m with the FBI. This is my colleague, Eloise Marshall. We have a few questions to ask.”

  “Then I expect you best come on in.” Once they were inside, she removed her apron and patted her hair. “If I’d known I was going to have company today, I would have put those pies in the oven earlier. I’ve raised three young’uns, and I found that asking and answering questions always goes better when all those involved are eating pie. The best I can offer is coffee and perhaps some leftover muffins from breakfast.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Eloise said. “But we’re fine. If we could just talk to you a few moments?”

  “Of course, of course. Please have a seat. Keep an ear out for the timer, will you? A burnt pie may be better than no pie at all, but I’d rather that didn’t happen.”

  “We’ll be sure to listen for it.” Eloise perched on the edge of the sofa.

  Phillip pulled a folded piece of paper from an inner pocket of his suit and handed it to Mrs. Clark before taking a seat beside Eloise. “This is a copy of the letter you gave to the postal director here in Springfield.”

  Mrs. Clark unfolded the paper and squinted through her spectacles at the words. “That’s right. It was the strangest thing, having a letter returned to me that I’d never written. How would I know anyone who lives all the way down there in Argentina? The strangest thing that’s ever happened to me. And that’s saying a lot considering I’ve had all kinds of strange things happening to me over the years. That’s what makes life fun, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is, ma’am,” Eloise agreed. “Do you know who might have written it?”

  “Can’t say that I do. I remember the envelope had a New York City postmark. Well, heavens, child, I’ve only been to New York City once in my life. And it definitely wasn’t to mail any letter to Argentina. Oh, no. I went to see one of those Broadway shows you hear about on the radio. Have you ever been to one of those Broadway shows?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure, though I hope to visit someday.”

  “Do try to go. It’s such a grand place.” Mrs. Clark returned her attention to the letter. Eloise sensed Phillip was about to speak so she placed her hand on his arm. The older woman reminded Eloise of a friend of her mother’s. The same no-nonsense yet affable personality.

  If they let her guide the conversation, she might be more forthcoming.

  “I did think it odd that the letter mentions a sick boy,” Mrs. Clark said.

  “Why is that?” Eloise asked.

  “Because of my nephew. He has an incurable brain tumor.” She gazed at Eloise, concern in her eyes. “How could the person who wrote this letter know that?”

  “Perhaps it was written by someone you know.”

  “Who used my nephew to pretend to be me? That is a lowly thing to do. A lowly thing.”

  “I agree with you. It’s one reason we want to find out who did this.” Guilt tugged at Eloise for the little white lie. She’d glossed over the sentence about the sick boy, supposing it to be a reference to another damaged ship. But Phillip had warned her that they were not there to provide information—only to get it. Mrs. Clark couldn’t know that the letter may be jargon code written by a traitor.

  “I suppose that’s why it was typed instead of written out.” Mrs
. Clark studied the handwritten signature at the end of the letter. “It looks like my writing, but I swear to you it’s not. I never signed this. And if I’d written it, I would have written the whole thing. I don’t know how to type and don’t see any need to learn. Not at my age. That’s more for the younger gals.”

  Her sharp eyes seemed to be appraising Eloise. “It’s amazing what a young woman can do these days. Taking the place of the men, they are. Stepping up and doing a man’s work. It’s not how it was when I was kicking up my heels and going out on the town with Mr. Clark during our courting time. Such peaceful days they were. A woman could teach school or be a nurse, but there weren’t many other options. Besides, those typewriters seem like such noisy machines, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they are,” Eloise said, secretly amused by the older woman’s assessment mingled with memories of her younger days and how she meandered from one topic to another and back again.

  “Whoever wrote this seems to know a great deal about dolls,” Eloise continued. “Are you a collector?”

  Mrs. Clark actually blushed. “I have a few. Not in this room, mind you. Mr. Clark wasn’t such a fan of my hobby. He always said he couldn’t abide all those eyes upon him.” She relaxed in her chair, smiling to herself as if lost in the past. “As if any of those dolls were watching him. He had quite the imagination, Mr. Clark did. But he didn’t really mind me keeping them. You should see the shelves he made. He was quite the craftsman, I tell you.”

  “Could we?” Phillip asked. “See his shelves, I mean.”

  “I don’t see why not.” Mrs. Clark returned the note to him as she stood. “They’re in the spare room. Now it wasn’t a spare room when all the children were still at home. But once we had it as a spare, well, then, it didn’t need to be empty, did it? Come with me.”