The Cryptographer's Dilemma

by Johnnie Alexander

  That fortune changed for the worse when Elizabeth succumbed to tuberculosis less than a year after the Doll Woman received her Bachelor of Arts degree from the Farm, the colloquial name for Leland Stanford Junior University. A brief four years later, she was working for a San Francisco bank and planning her first wedding when Otto died in a tragic accident. He’d been crushed beneath the wheel of a car.

  That first brief marriage ended in divorce, as did her second—also fortunate events. Her third marriage to the owner of a produce commodity brokerage company, one that catered to Japanese clients in California’s Imperial Valley, allowed her to step into a world she’d idolized her entire life.

  In the years preceding the war, she’d cultivated deep relationships within the Japanese-American Society. At social gatherings attended by important government officials and dignitaries, she dressed in authentic Japanese attire. Oh, how she adored wearing the traditional costumes while Japanese musical recordings played in the background. Dressing her small frame in the gorgeous silks and vibrant colors fed her soul like nothing else in the world. She’d stand before the full-length mirror, turning this way and that, to ensure perfection. Her husband, Lee, often teased that she became his own personal doll in her silk costumes.

  The Pearl Harbor attack that shocked and horrified her neighbors had not come as a surprise to her. Instead, she’d been taken aback—and honored—that her Japanese friends asked for her assistance in finding out the extent of the damage to the US Navy beyond what was being reported in the newspapers and on the radio.

  Those days of visiting dignitaries at the Japanese consulate and entertaining highly ranked government officials had ended abruptly as Americans unfairly blamed innocent people for what their emperor had chosen to do—what he had a right to do to protect his nation’s interests. Why could no one see this as clearly as she did?

  The Doll Woman tossed the hateful newspaper on a side table in the bedroom of her Madison Avenue apartment. War or no war, and despite Lee’s recent death, she planned to attend this evening’s private dinner at the Nippon Club. Her dear friend, Kaname Wakasugi, the Japanese consul general, was rumored to be attending. It might be her last chance to spend time with him before he returned to Tokyo. If only she could persuade him to allow her to accompany him. What a wonderful adventure that would be.

  She perched on her bed and stared at the painting hanging above the fireplace. The landscape, depicting a Japanese home with cherry trees and koi ponds in the walled garden, had been a gift from a Japanese naval attaché she’d befriended when she became a member of the Japanese Institute of New York. He had already been expelled from the United States; but before his departure, he’d asked the Doll Woman for a favor—one she had not hesitated to oblige.

  Passing along information about the navy’s ships and shipyards proved her loyalty, and she had no doubt she’d be handsomely rewarded beyond the money she’d already received. She closed her eyes and imagined the home in the landscape as her own. What days of tranquility and peace! She could still own a doll shop, of course, if she wanted; though perhaps she would set aside all thoughts of business and commerce to focus instead on throwing lavish parties for the elite of Japanese society. She might even set up a kind of salon similar to those New York gatherings where sophisticates discussed the issues of the day and looked down their noses at those too pedestrian to accept their liberal points of view.

  What a tremendous life that would be. And it might soon be hers.

  She returned to the apartment’s kitchen, where her typewriter, a portable Underwood, rested on the table. She took a seat, rolled a sheet of paper into the machine, then consulted the guidebook her handlers had provided. Apparently, the code they’d created was successful. She’d already sent out several letters using the names and return addresses of a few of her clients. Though she’d at first been nervous that the scheme wouldn’t work, months had passed since her first batch of letters were mailed, and the consequences had been nil. She no longer had any fear that the letters could be traced back to her. Señora Ines de Molinali, if she even existed, had undoubtedly received her updates and passed them along to those who could benefit from their contents.

  The Doll Woman’s deception remained undetected, and she could sleep at night knowing she was doing her part to bring this war to a quick end. She was doing so by helping those considered as the enemy by most of the country’s population.

  Pshaw!

  The Doll Woman knew better. Someday, in the far future, perhaps her contribution would become common knowledge. She’d be remembered as a heroine. Books would be written about her. Her fame would live long after she passed from this earth.

  A satisfied smile stretched across her red-painted lips. Such a legacy. And it had been given to her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Eloise read the last letter from the box Mrs. Clark had given her and handed it to Phillip. They had rented two adjoining rooms at a roadside motel on the eastern outskirts of Indianapolis, registering at the front desk as the siblings they weren’t. Now they were seated across from each other at the tiny round table in Eloise’s sparsely furnished room.

  As she opened each letter, Eloise listed the name and address of the sender, the date of the letter, and the postmark information in her steno pad. Mrs. Clark had kept the letters in chronological order, and that’s the way Eloise insisted on reading them. Phillip had disagreed, preferring to delve immediately into the envelopes postmarked from New York since the letter supposedly written by Barbara Clark had been postmarked from there.

  “Reading them chronologically may show connections we’ll miss if we read them willy-nilly,” she’d insisted. He’d laughed at her for saying “willy-nilly,” but to her surprise he conceded her point with a flippant, “You’re the code breaker.”

  She hoped he’d agreed because he respected her expertise. But what if he only agreed because he wanted her to fail? She tried to reason away that notion before it took root. After all, any failures on her part affected him too. And their mission.

  His plan wasn’t a bad one. If one of the New York letters provided information they needed, there would be no need to read all the rest. But that notion bothered her even more than reading them out of order. Unread letters meant an incomplete task. She needed to read them all, even if the first letter gave them incontrovertible proof of the traitor’s identity, before the box was handed over to the FBI field office the next morning.

  As Phillip scanned the last letter, Eloise glanced down the list she’d created. The letters had given her an important introduction into the world of doll collectors. The women discussed specific dolls they’d bought and sold, gossiped about prominent members of the avocation, and shared personal information. But none of the letters gave any indication of being anything other than what they seemed to be—correspondence between women who enjoyed the same hobby.

  Phillip tucked the last letter into its envelope and returned it to the box.

  “Was that a waste of time?” Eloise asked.

  “Did you learn anything about collecting dolls?”

  “Quite a lot, actually. Did you?”

  “More than I ever wanted to know.” Phillip rubbed the back of his neck as if to ease his muscles. “So, no. It wasn’t a waste of time.”

  “But none of the letters sounded suspicious. I suppose one of them, maybe more than one, could include jargon code.” Her voice faded away. What if she had missed something? She’d never forgive herself if the answers were in the box and she’d overlooked them.

  “Nothing stood out to you, though? Right?”

  “Nothing.” She grabbed the box and removed the one with the earliest date. “I’ll read them again. Just to be sure.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Yes, I do.” She unfolded the lined sheets decorated with a floral border.

  Phillip reached across the table and placed his hand on her arm. “Let’s go to supper first. Sometimes it helps to take
a break. Give yourself some distance from the letters so you can come back to them with a fresh outlook.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I am.” He pushed away from the table and stretched as he stood, extending first one arm and then the other. “You have ten minutes to get ready. Hurry up or I’ll leave without you.” He took the box and the letter. When he reached the open door, he glanced back. “I mean it, Sis.”

  Before she could reply, he shut the adjoining door behind him. But the closed door didn’t prevent her from hearing his amused chuckle.

  Her stomach made a rumbling noise, forcing her to admit her hunger. And she supposed he was right that it was a good idea to step away from the letters. When she read them again, she would be even more alert to any hint of a correspondent using a jargon code.

  She brushed her hair and pinned her cloche hat at a jaunty angle. After applying a fresh coat of lipstick, she pulled on the jacket matching her skirt. When Phillip knocked on the adjoining door, she was ready for another entertaining evening with the man she once considered insufferable. She was learning he was anything but that.

  Early the next morning, Phillip ushered Eloise into the FBI field office building in downtown Indianapolis. During the three-hour drive from Springfield yesterday, he’d called during a gas stop to let Special Agent in Charge Reed E. Vetterli know he’d be coming by. The person who answered the phone promised to relay the message. Hopefully, Vetterli would be there. Phillip didn’t want to give the letters to anyone else, but if Vetterli wasn’t around, he’d have no other choice.

  He flashed his badge at the middle-aged woman staffing the receptionist’s desk. He figured she was probably the same no-nonsense woman he’d talked to on the phone the day before.

  “Agent Phillip Clayton.” He gestured toward Eloise. “My associate, Eloise Marshall.”

  “I know who you are, Agent Clayton.” She stood and extended a hand. “All of us have been following the Operation Pastorius case with great interest. To think that the Germans thought they could get away with such a scheme. You deserve the gratitude of all Americans for bringing them to justice.”

  Heat crept up Phillip’s neck. He avoided glancing at Eloise, though he felt her eyes upon him. The mission had never been far from his mind—especially since the execution date was imminent—but he’d never brought it up. He’d been tempted to a couple of times, especially on the train ride from Washington, DC, and even yesterday on the drive from Springfield. During those long hours of inactivity, his mind tended to brood on his interview with Dasch, the capture of the other men, and the testimony he’d given before the tribunal.

  But how could he explain to a stranger the mixed feelings he’d had about the sentencing? If he had a mission to blow up a munitions factory in Germany, he’d do it and be hailed a hero here at home. Should a man lose his life for serving his country? In war, the easy answer was yes. The nationwide publicity could dissuade other secret agents from carrying out sabotage.

  And yet…this was a man’s life. A man created in the image of God.

  The receptionist still smiled at him, but the tilt of her head and the sharp look in her eyes indicated she was studying him. Out of politeness, he shook her hand. “I can’t claim all the credit,” he said with a forced laugh. “Agents from different field offices worked together to get the job done. Thankfully, we apprehended the saboteurs before they could do any damage.”

  “Modest.” The woman turned her gaze to Eloise. “The best agents always are.”

  Phillip awkwardly cleared his throat before Eloise could respond. “I left a message for Reed Vetterli,” he said. “Is he here?”

  “He’s expecting you.” She returned to her seat and picked up her phone. “I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.” While she used the phone’s intercom system to contact Vetterli, Phillip pulled Eloise away from the desk.

  “I didn’t know I was working with a hero,” Eloise whispered.

  Phillip scoffed. “I’m no hero. One of the saboteurs turned himself in. If he hadn’t…” There was no need to finish the sentence. Eloise was a bright girl. She could imagine the carnage that might have occurred.

  “I didn’t read that little detail in any of the papers.”

  “Of course not.” Phillip kept his voice low. “A bit of a black eye for the Bureau if people knew we hadn’t uncovered the operation on our own.”

  Eloise’s eyes narrowed as she stared at him. Her lips were pressed together, and her intensity heightened his internal antennae.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You’re not a hero.”

  He frowned, and her lips turned up into a gentle smile.

  She leaned toward him. “But you are heroic.”

  He stared at her, not sure how to respond, but her attention was now focused on the portrait of E. L. Osborne, the first special agent in charge when the Indianapolis field office opened in the twenties. Phillip sensed Eloise knew exactly what she was doing—knocking him down then picking him up again. And now feigning disinterest. Exactly like something his youngest sister, Janie, would do.

  “Agent Clayton?” the receptionist called for him. “Special Agent in Charge Vetterli will see you now. He’s waiting for you in his office.”

  Grateful for the distraction, Phillip tugged on Eloise’s sleeve. “Let’s go.” He led the way down a long corridor to Vetterli’s suite. A secretary greeted them then ushered them into the inner office.

  Vetterli stood behind his desk. “Phillip. How good to see you again. Come in, come in.” His smile widened at the sight of Eloise. “Who’s your companion?”

  Phillip made the introductions, and he and Eloise took seats opposite Vetterli.

  “Good news about those German saboteurs,” Vetterli said. “I’m a trifle miffed none of them made their way to Indianapolis. It would have been a pleasure to participate in the hunt.”

  Phillip puzzled over what to say. Better luck next time? God help them, there would never be a next time.

  “Here’s your opportunity to help on a different matter,” he said. “We suspect someone is sending information about the damage done to our ships at Pearl Harbor to either the Germans or the Japanese.”

  “Do tell.” Vetterli leaned forward with interest. “What prompted this?”

  “A couple of letters that appear to be written in what’s known as jargon code.” Phillip handed copies of the letters supposedly written by Barbara Clark and Dorothy Walker to Vetterli. “Eloise is a trained code breaker with the US Navy. She believes certain words in the letter refer to specific ships.”

  “Is that so?” Vetterli scanned the two letters. “Which words?”

  Phillip turned to Eloise. “You’re the expert.”

  For the next several minutes, Eloise explained to Vetterli about the letters and her possible explanations. Then Phillip briefed him on their visit to Barbara Clark’s home.

  “She gave us these letters.” Phillip placed the box on Vetterli’s desk. “We read them yesterday, and they seem innocent enough, but with the stakes this high, we can’t afford to leave any stone unturned.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “First of all, copies of the originals that Eloise and I can take with us.”

  “And second?”

  “The originals shipped to headquarters for analysis. Hopefully, the geniuses in forensics will find something useful.”

  “I’ll select the courier myself,” Vetterli promised.

  “That’d be great,” Phillip replied. “The package needs to be given to Richard Whitmer. No one else.”

  “Of course.” Vetterli called in his secretary and gave her instructions to make duplicates of the letters. Once she’d left, he turned again to Phillip and Eloise. “You’re obviously not returning to DC. May I ask where you’re headed next?”

  “Mrs. Walker lives in Spokane,” Eloise said. “We’re going there to interview her.”

  Vetterli leaned back in his seat. “That’s a long tri
p.”

  “Tell me about it.” Phillip propped his ankle on his opposite knee. “You must have a train schedule around here. Any tips on which route to take to the northwest corner of the country?”

  “I do. But how would you like to fly instead?”

  Phillip widened his eyes. Had he heard Vetterli correctly? “That would be…” Words momentarily failed him. “That would be terrific.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.” Eloise’s defiant tone cut Phillip to the quick.

  “You don’t want to fly?” He was astounded.

  “No.”

  That was it. Simple. No nonsense. Finis.

  He could pull rank on her, giving her no choice. Or he could beg. He wasn’t too proud to do that, not if it meant he could fly.

  Vetterli tried to hide a smile as he shifted his gaze from Eloise to Phillip. “I happen to know that a military transport is leaving from our local training camp for Seattle in a couple of hours. Maybe I can pull a few strings to get you on board. It’s up to you.”

  Phillip gazed at Eloise until she faced him. “I’ve never been on a plane before,” she said.

  “Neither have I.” He put as much enthusiasm in his voice as he could muster, not that he had to try very hard. He didn’t know when he’d last been this excited. “It will be an adventure. Something to tell your grandchildren.”

  “Unless the plane crashes and I die,” she retorted.

  “That won’t happen,” he insisted.

  She turned to Vetterli, eyebrow arched.

  “The pilots are highly trained,” he said. “And it’ll save you from spending days on the road.”

  “You’ll see, Eloise.” Phillip covered her hand with his. “It’ll be fun.” If she didn’t say yes soon, he’d drop to his knees in front of her. Please say yes before I totally humiliate myself.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head no. Phillip’s heart fell to his stomach. If only he could make her understand how important this was to him, but that would mean telling her about his broken dream of becoming a pilot, of the colorblindness that kept him from doing so.