The Cryptographer's Dilemma

by Johnnie Alexander

  Looking for me?

  Sideburns turned back to the mirror, again seeming to search the reflected crowd. Then he shifted his eyes to the group by the painting of the arch. And then to Eloise.

  Phillip recognized the man’s expression. He’d seen it often enough on the faces of his colleagues during various operations as they assessed whether someone was a threat and, if so, how much. He no doubt wore the same expression himself, at least to anyone skilled enough to recognize it.

  But why would Sideburns suspect Eloise of being a threat? She was the epitome of girl-next-door wholesomeness. Or was she?

  Phillip looked at her again, adjusting his view of her so that she was a stranger instead of his colleague on a weird cross-country FBI operation. How would he appraise her at this moment if he didn’t know her?

  She appeared stunning in her new dress. More than one red-blooded American male had taken a lingering look or a backward glance since they’d left their rooms at the Union Station hotel. But Eloise paid no attention to her erstwhile admirers. She simply stared at her father and the woman who now stood with him, her eyes intense, her jaw firm, her stance unyielding.

  A potential threat. Except she was a woman, thereby more useful as a distraction than the cause of any harm. At least that might be Sideburns’s line of reasoning and why he had paid closer attention to her companion—Phillip—assuming he was the one more likely to cause trouble. Though trouble to whom? Leonard Mitchell?

  A clock chimed the hour, and as if on cue, several in the bar area prepared to leave. The pre-gala reception was about to begin effectively moving the party to another area of the hotel. Sideburns slid from his stool, buttoned his jacket, and moved toward the painting of the arch. He seemed to catch Mitchell’s eye then darted his gaze to Eloise and back again. Mitchell followed the glance then stared as his jovial smile faded away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  When her father kissed the woman’s cheek, Eloise wanted to run from the hotel and board the first train out of St. Louis. But her feet were glued to the floor, and all she could do was stare as the couple laughed with their friends. Everything around her seemed to recede from her senses. She saw only those in the cheerful tableau in front of her. The loud chattering of the crowd was only a distant hum in her ears.

  The chime of a clock startled her, but she stayed at her vantage post even as reception-goers vacated their tables and swirled past her. She didn’t know what to do, where to go. So, she stayed, still as a statue, and waited.

  Laughter bubbled from her father as he turned toward her. When their eyes met, his narrowed as if he were trying to place her, then the smile died on his lips. Her muscles tightened, and she hardened her stare. This was the moment she’d been waiting for, and she still didn’t know what to say to him. Or if she should say anything at all.

  “Lenny?” The woman shifted her gaze to Eloise then back to her husband. “Aren’t you coming? We don’t want to be late, darling.”

  Another man joined the group. He took a position between Eloise and her father, his hands loosely clasped in front of him. Almost simultaneously, she sensed Phillip’s presence beside her.

  “Everything okay, boss?” the man said.

  The question seemed to jolt her father from his stupor. Recognition flashed, and his eyes softened. His hand moved, as if to reach for her, but a cigarette dangled from his fingers and he put it to his lips.

  “Lenny?” Annoyance edged the woman’s tone. Eloise shifted her gaze toward the person she assumed was the new Mrs. Marshall. No—she was Mrs. Mitchell. Her father had tossed his past aside and taken a new name, a new wife. The venom in the woman’s eyes unnerved her. Eloise had never before seen such hatred. To find it directed at her punched her resolve.

  If looks could kill, she’d be on the floor taking her last breath.

  “I can’t believe the nerve,” the woman practically hissed. “Thinking you could show up here and embarrass us in front of our friends. You already have your money. Now leave before I have you thrown out.”

  Eloise opened her mouth then closed it again. She turned to her father, a ten-year-old girl who needed her daddy to navigate a strange world where people said things that didn’t make sense. But he’d given up that role when he abandoned his family. His first family.

  He gripped his wife’s arm. “She’s not who you think…. This isn’t who you think it is.”

  “You mean there’s another one?”

  “Honey pie,” he said, his voice sickly placating, “you’re getting all upset when there’s absolutely no reason for it. Why don’t you go along to the reception? I’ll be along shortly and then I’ll explain everything.”

  “Will you explain everything to me?” Surprised by the strength in her voice, especially when her insides were as squishy as warmed gelatin, Eloise couldn’t resist striking a match to the dynamite keg. “Father.”

  His eyes flickered with such a myriad of emotions—betrayal, anger, regret—Eloise couldn’t tell what bothered him most. That she stood in front of him demanding answers or that she’d dared to reveal their relationship. Phillip placed his hand on the small of her back, a welcome gesture that comforted her heart and fortified her confidence.

  “Father?” Mrs. Mitchell glared at her husband. “You always were one for secrets, but this seems a bit much even for you. What in the world will Daddy say?”

  “Go to the reception, Lorraine.” His tone was more that of an autocratic boss than a loving husband. All hint of his prior joviality had disappeared, replaced by the countenance that Eloise remembered most from her childhood. He turned to the friend he’d been laughing with earlier and said in a low voice, “If she doesn’t control herself, take her to our room and give her a sleeping pill. I won’t be long.” The friend nodded agreement then escorted both his wife and Mrs. Mitchell away from the bar.

  Now they were alone except for the side-burned beast Eloise assumed was her father’s right-hand man or perhaps his bodyguard. Either way, he seemed content to observe their interactions while staying near enough to be of assistance if her father needed him. What did he think she was going to do? Slap him?

  Though the thought was tempting, any satisfaction she gained would be short-lived. She’d be left with nothing but a stinging palm.

  “Shall we go somewhere more private?” Father suggested. “The hotel has a tiny library tucked away in a hidden corner, which I doubt is in use. We can talk there.”

  Phillip stirred beside her. She could guess why. The words tucked away and hidden probably raised red flags for him. But she had no reason to fear her father or the hulking goon. “Sounds lovely.”

  “Who’s your companion?” Father asked. “You’re not wearing a ring, so I assume he isn’t your husband.”

  “He’s a…friend.” She’d started to say colleague, but that might lead to questions about her vocation. Questions she couldn’t answer even if she wanted to. And she certainly didn’t want to tell her lowlife of a father about either her work with the navy or with the FBI. He could think what he wanted about her traveling with a man who wasn’t her husband, even if it sullied her reputation in his eyes. She truly did not care about his opinion. He’d broken Mother’s heart, and from what she’d observed, the new wife wasn’t faring much better.

  “A friend?” He actually smirked. “Does he have a name?”

  Phillip extended his hand. “Phillip Carter. Construction.”

  Father set down his drink, clasped Phillip’s hand, and didn’t let go.

  “That’s quite a grip you’ve got there, sir.” Phillip’s casual tone showed no indication of rancor.

  “A good thing for you to remember.” Father dropped Phillip’s hand as if he were tossing away a too small fish.

  “I will, sir. You can count on that.”

  “Why don’t you take a seat at the bar and get yourself a drink. You can put it on my tab, and Hammer here will keep you company while Eloise and I have a little chat.”

  “That’
s not going to happen.” The pressure of his hand on Eloise’s back intensified. “Sir.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she murmured.

  “And I’ll be right outside the door.”

  She nodded agreement. She’d been fearful of this meeting, fearful of what she’d find when face-to-face with her father. But now she was more curious than afraid. More angry than hurt. In a few brief moments, she’d witnessed a despicable and selfish person treat his wife with total disregard for her feelings. He might have treated Mother the same way during their marriage. But he had no power to harm her, no matter what he might say or do. Not anymore.

  She tucked her hand into the crook of Phillip’s arm. “I’m ready.”

  Father didn’t look pleased but neither did he object. They made their way to the library in silence. After the warren of hallways they’d passed through to find it, Eloise was especially glad Phillip had accompanied her. She wasn’t sure she could find her way back to the lobby by herself.

  True to his word, Phillip took up his post on one side of the door while Father’s goon did the same on the other. The rectangular room was lined with shelves. Most held books or magazines. But others displayed memorabilia from the days when the hotel housed a men’s academic club and historical items related to St. Louis’s beginnings. If Eloise had been here under any other circumstances, she would have enjoyed browsing the displays and reading the placards.

  Father offered Eloise a seat at a nearby wooden table. She allowed him to push in her chair then waited for him to speak first. That was one of the interrogation techniques she’d learned at the academy—begin by letting the subject tell his story. He’ll probably give you information you wouldn’t have gotten by asking premature questions.

  “What are you doing here, Eloise? Did your mother send you?”

  Somehow, she managed to keep her expression impassive. Phillip would have been proud. But she hadn’t expected him to question her or to insinuate that Mother knew where to find him. How could she? Even if she knew he lived in Seattle, she probably wouldn’t have known about the gala in St. Louis.

  Time to try another interrogation technique. Answer a question with a question.

  “Where have you been the past thirteen years”—she remembered how Phillip had paused earlier and how that pause had weighted his next word, sir, with an ironic emphasis—“Father?”

  “Making my fortune,” he said simply, as if the answer should have been obvious. “What choice did I have after my first one was stolen from me?”

  “You could have stayed with your family. It’s not like you were the only one who suffered.”

  “Would you have thought better of me if I’d jumped off a building? Drowned myself?” He scoffed. “That was never going to happen. But neither could I stay in Albany and endure the finger pointing and the whisperings. You have no idea what it was like, those days after the crash. The best thing I could do for you and your brother and your mother was to go on my own way. Make a fresh start.”

  His casual mention of Allan churned a fire within her that she could not control. “Allan is dead.”

  Father startled. “Allan’s dead?” For the first time, he seemed shaken out of the smug complacency he wore like a tailored suit.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “How could I have known?” He stood, paced a circle, then returned to his seat. “When? What happened?”

  “Why should I tell you?” It was a cruel question, and she had never believed herself to be a cruel person. But she felt justified in this cruelty. Anything to cause him pain similar to the pain she bore every day.

  “He was my son.” With the tone of his voice, the expression in his eyes, he pleaded for an answer. But she wanted to twist the knife for a while longer.

  “Not once you left. Not after all the birthdays and Christmases you missed. Not after you tossed us away like yesterday’s newspaper and found a new family.”

  He reached for her hand, but she pulled away before he could touch her.

  “You were too young to understand.” His tone shifted, becoming soft and reconciliatory. “I’m begging you to understand now. Just because I wasn’t there didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking of you. I thought of you every day. And when your birthday came around, I spent the day in tears thinking of my beautiful little girl. I can’t count the number of times I started to get on that train and head east. Countless times.”

  The picture he was painting with his words was so at odds with the father of her memories and the man who sat near her today that she wanted to laugh in his face. How gullible, how stupid, did he think she was? She hadn’t made the mistake of placing her absent father on a pedestal, but she realized now that she’d expected more respect from him.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said. “I don’t think you once looked back or that you were ever sorry.”

  His demeanor changed again, and his eyes grew cold. “Do you think I care what you believe or don’t believe?” He smacked his palm on the table, and the sound reverberated around the room. “Tell me what happened to Allan. I have a right to know.”

  The door opened, and Phillip filled the frame. He held a small revolver at his side. Father’s goon stood behind him but seemed unsure whether to pull Phillip out the door. “What’s going on in here?” Phillip demanded.

  “I’m fine.” Eloise rose from her seat and joined Phillip. “Goodbye, Father. Congratulations on your award.”

  As they left, her father’s voice boomed after them. “Your mother knows. She knows everything, and she never told you.”

  Eloise faltered, and Phillip placed his arm around her waist. With his support, she left her father behind.

  “He’s probably lying,” Phillip said.

  “It doesn’t matter.” The words came out glibly. Too glibly. But they were true. “If she kept his whereabouts a secret, it was because she loves us and wanted to protect us. I can’t fault her for that.”

  “How are you feeling now that it’s over?”

  Unsure of her answer, she considered his question a moment. “He’s an unhappy man,” she finally said. “And he seems to make everyone around him unhappy too. I guess, more than anything, I feel sorry for him.”

  Phillip hmphed. “Like the Good Book says, a man reaps what he sows. Mitchell made his decisions. If he’s unhappy, he only has himself to blame.”

  “True,” Eloise agreed. Yet it wasn’t that simple. His last words had been a cruel attempt to hurt her. To drive a wedge between her and Mother. But her words to him had been cruel too. She despised the harm he’d done to their family, but that didn’t excuse her lack of compassion. The Good Book also said to “be ye kind one to another.” To forgive as Christ “hath forgiven you.”

  Perhaps she should go back and tell him what he wanted to know. But the thought of facing him again churned her stomach. Kindness and forgiveness were all well and good, but neither required her to be in the same room with him ever again.

  “I need to stop at the front desk,” she said when they finally reached the lobby.

  “I understand if you’d rather stay here than at the station,” Phillip teased. “But our budget won’t stretch that far. And I think I’ve already used up all of Uncle Richard’s goodwill.”

  “My father asked about Allan. I wouldn’t tell him how he died. He deserves to know.”

  “He deserves a swift kick in the behind.”

  “That too. But not from me.” Her tone strengthened as she recalled Phillip bursting into the library. “Or you. Was it necessary to pull out your revolver?”

  “Some men respond best to a show of force.”

  “Men like my father?”

  “I think he fits in that category.”

  “Then maybe I should have been the one carrying it.” At the incredulous look on Phillip’s face, Eloise grinned. The teasing banter was the tonic she needed to stop her wallowing in a muddy mixture of resentment and guilt.

  “Not until you’ve had more practice at the firi
ng range. We never did get to go.”

  His comment took Eloise back to that Sunday afternoon at the Whitmer home. Phillip had suggested they go to the range, but Richard said no. “It’s the Lord’s Day. Time for rest and reflection.” What had it been, three or more weeks since then? The days had passed in a blur and yet they were among the most momentous of Eloise’s life. God had blessed her with purpose after Allan’s death and brought her to this hotel to confront her father. Forgiveness—not that he had asked for it—was difficult. But her spirit prompted her to do one simple, yet very hard thing.

  At her request, the front desk clerk handed Eloise a sheet of stationery with the hotel watermark and a matching envelope. Her father wanted to know about his son, and she would honor that request without any recriminations and a minimum of information. The note was brief. If he wanted more details, he no doubt had contacts who could provide them for him.

  Allan joined the navy after high school. He was a Petty Officer First Class when he was killed at Pearl Harbor. He’s buried next to Grandma and Grandpa.

  She sealed the envelope, wrote her father’s name on the front, and handed it to the clerk. “Please see that Mr. Mitchell receives this. No one else.” The last thing she wanted was for Mrs. Mitchell to read the letter. In the mood she was in, she might tear it up into tiny pieces and burn them.

  “He’s attending the National Investments Gala,” Phillip added as he gave the clerk a few coins. “It’s important he receives this as soon as it’s over.”

  The clerk assured them he would see to the delivery personally.

  “Feel better?” Phillip asked as they strolled across the lobby.

  “Much.” She hugged his arm, realized what she was doing, and pulled slightly away. If he’d noticed, he pretended not to. “Thank you for staying with me. And for looking out for me.”