The Cryptographer's Dilemma

by Johnnie Alexander

  “What you are is a traitor.”

  “You’re wrong. My husband was the traitor. I had no idea what he was up to.”

  Phillip couldn’t believe what he was hearing. True, the evidence was still mostly circumstantial, but he never expected an excuse like this. “Your husband is dead.”

  “Miss Marshall will be too if you don’t cooperate.” She shifted her handbag. The black muzzle of a snub-nosed revolver was pointed right at him. At this close range, she wouldn’t miss.

  “I also have one of those, Mrs. Dickinson.”

  “Let me make myself clear.” The hatred in her eyes deepened. “If you do not cooperate, Miss Marshall will pay the price. Perhaps not today or tomorrow but soon. And you will not be here to save her.”

  Her threats couldn’t be possible. Whoever she was feeding information to had left her high and dry. Isaac Hirano’s house was surely being watched. He couldn’t do anything to help her or to harm Eloise. But what if they had missed something? What if she had other contacts, other resources they hadn’t uncovered? He couldn’t take the chance that she was bluffing. Not when Eloise’s life was at stake.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Take a cab ride with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “One of my favorite places in this city.”

  “Shall I hail a cab or will you?”

  She feigned a laugh and pulled a scarf from her handbag with her free hand. “First things first, Mr. Clayton. Please wrap your weapon in this and return it to me.”

  Despite his misgivings, Phillip did as she requested. He’d go along with her little game, at least for a while. It’d give him a chance to learn more about her operation—whether she did have partners who could go after Eloise or if she was on her own. When the time came, he’d take control. And Mrs. Velvalee Dickinson, the infamous Doll Woman, would face the consequences of her actions.

  Outside the deserted Kubota Garden, Velvalee instructed Phillip, now responsible for carrying her suitcase, to precede her along the path. His scarf-wrapped revolver nestled next to the cash in her handbag while her snub-nosed version pointed at his back.

  She’d never shot a person before, only silly targets Lee had set up in the woods behind their spacious home outside San Francisco. Those had been their short-lived glory days, when Lee’s produce commodity brokerage company flourished. Their cherished relationships with his Japanese clients granted Velvalee’s dearest wish to immerse herself in their culture.

  Her life had been perfect until the FBI appeared at the brokerage company with their suspicions of financial improprieties and a warrant. By the time the ordeal ended, their business was in ruins. And for what purpose? Lee was never accused of anything except being too chummy with his clients. They couldn’t put him behind bars for that, but the damage had been done. Now the FBI wanted to destroy her again. Not this time.

  Her brooding anger sharpened with heartache as she and Phillip walked beneath the wooden entrance, which had been stripped of its iron gates. Though many of the gorgeous flowering shrubs and ornamental trees that had brought Velvalee such delight on past visits were thriving, vining weeds overran the border plants and rock gardens. Such a travesty and for no purpose.

  She directed Phillip to sit on a grassy bank close to a footbridge. Once he’d complied, she perched behind him on her upright suitcase and stared at the vista before her. The water lilies in the narrow stream gathered against the bridge’s column, and thick algae bordered the bank. The odor of dead fish and rotting decay assaulted her nostrils.

  “What do you know of this place?” she asked.

  “I’ve never been here before,” Phillip replied.

  “It was a labor of love for a most distinguished gentleman named Fujitaro Kubota. He and his family lived here, worked here, entertained here.” Velvalee momentarily closed her eyes, letting herself return to happier days when she visited this garden refuge. “One could imagine herself in Japan while strolling these paths.”

  “Why did you bring me here?” The impatience in his tone caused her anger to flare.

  “Do you know where Fujitaro Kubota is now?”

  “How would I?”

  “He’s in an internment camp. The man that created all this beauty, who gave us this generous gift, is now a prisoner. His only crime is his Japanese heritage.” She poked Phillip in the shoulder with the revolver. “That’s the government you work for.”

  As he twisted his neck to look at her, he rubbed his shoulder. She pointed the gun at him. “Don’t turn around. Don’t move.”

  “Okay, okay.” He raised both hands chest high as if in surrender. “Why don’t you tell me what we’re doing here? What can I do to help you?”

  Velvalee gazed beyond him to the unmown grass and the untrimmed hedges. The garden’s neglect pierced her heart as if it symbolized all that was wrong in the world. If only she could have protected this place and prevented her friends from being taken to the camps. If only the FBI hadn’t once again interfered with her private business.

  “Tell me, Velvalee. What is it you want?”

  She glared at the back of his arrogant head, eyed the revolver in her hand, and with all her strength and might, smacked him behind his ear.

  He fell sideways but caught himself. Before he could rise, she struck him again. He sprawled on the bank, his fingertips floating in the stream as his blood soaked the ground.

  She squatted beside him, listening to his shallow breath, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

  “What I want is to leave this place.” Her voice was low and harsh. “I want to live with people who understand culture and refinement. And I want to take you, a United States federal agent, with me as a gift to my friends.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Eloise smiled with satisfaction as the dollar amount on the calculator roll equaled the dollar amount on the expense report. A small victory but one that had taken several minutes to resolve, thanks to Agent Red Eckers’s sloppy bookkeeping. Concentrating on the numbers took the edge from her worry but hadn’t obliterated it completely. On the surface, the other women in the office seemed content to type their reports and answer the phone calls. But Eloise sensed a tension in the atmosphere as if all of them were holding their breath while waiting for news.

  A commotion sounded in the hallway followed by the receptionist’s voice screeching, “You can’t go in there.”

  Eloise glanced around the secretarial pool in alarm. All the women seemed frozen at their desks. Rebecca emerged from her office and faced the door to the corridor. She held a gun behind her back.

  The door flung open revealing a broad-chested man in a rumpled suit, the receptionist close behind him. “Where’s Suran?” he shouted to no one in particular while waving the book he carried. “I need to see him now.”

  “I told him he couldn’t barge in here,” the receptionist insisted.

  “It’s fine. This is Agent Thomas Bolman from our Spokane field office.” Rebecca’s shoulders relaxed, and she smiled as she looked around the room. “Everyone, return to your duties.”

  “I need to see Suran.” The man’s voice was calmer now. “I lost them. Both of them.”

  Eloise’s heart leapt to her throat. Whom did he mean? Whom had he lost?

  “Come with me.” Rebecca gestured toward her office. “Eloise, please join us.”

  Eloise’s knees shook as she rose from her desk and entered the office. Rebecca closed the door and folded her arms. “Special Agent Suran is out with a surveillance team. What’s so important that you stormed in here and upset my girls?”

  Bolman took a deep breath then stared at Eloise. “You’re her,” he exclaimed. “The one in the picture. I’ll show you.” He opened the book, removed a photograph, and gave it to Rebecca. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes snapped.

  “Let me see it.” Eloise held out her hand.

  Rebecca held the photo close to her chest. The writing on the back w
as too small for Eloise to decipher. “It’s a photograph of you and Agent Clayton,” Rebecca said.

  “We’ve never had our picture taken together.”

  “Nevertheless, one exists. Someone has drawn an X over you.” Rebecca put the photo in Eloise’s hand and turned to Agent Bolman. “Please stop pacing and tell me exactly what happened.”

  “When we arrived in Seattle, the subject entered a phone booth. Clayton got in a different one, and I positioned myself to see both.”

  As he talked, Eloise stared at the photograph. The initial shock took her breath away, but then she looked beyond the horrid black mark and was transported back to the unguarded moment when the picture had been taken. This was the morning after the confrontation with her father, shortly before they boarded the train east for their appointment in Springfield.

  She remembered her eyes were puffy from too many tears and too little sleep. Phillip’s gentle compassion, as he navigated the blurry line between saying too much or too little, had almost done her in. But the warmth in his gaze had bolstered her spirit. She couldn’t look away from him, not even when his gaze dropped to her lips. In the moment captured by the camera, her heart ached for him to kiss her, to hold her in his arms. Instead, he’d turned away, and she’d renewed her vow to guard against her deepening feelings for him.

  “When I couldn’t find either of them, I went back to the phone booths,” Agent Bolman continued, and Eloise realized she’d missed part of his story. “The book and photo were just lying on the seat. But you can see Clayton’s message there on the back. He said to find you, and I guess I did but not where he thought you’d be.”

  Eloise turned the photo over, as Rebecca stepped closer to read over her shoulder. Three different people had written on the back. Below her and Phillip’s names was a message threatening Eloise with harm. Scribbled across the bottom was Phillip’s message to Agent Bolman.

  “I ran out to the taxi stand, but they weren’t there. So, I came straight here to give this to Suran. Figured he’d know best what to do.”

  Eloise pointed to the threatening message. “This is Velvalee Dickinson’s handwriting. I’ve read several postcards she sent to a friend.” She hadn’t realized until she read Phillip’s note that he didn’t know about her trip to Seattle. Richard must not have thought it important to tell him. Was that because her role in this investigation ended when she delivered the package? Because Richard, like her father before him, was done with her?

  A loud and resounding no echoed inside her. Richard was not her father, and Phillip cared about her as she cared about him. She held the photographic evidence of that in her hands.

  “Do you have any idea who wrote your names on here?” Rebecca asked Eloise. “Who took the photograph?”

  “No, only that it was taken when we were in St. Louis. Whoever did must have known we were investigating Mrs. Dickinson. But I don’t know how or why anyone would have given this to her.”

  “Now that I know you’re safe,” Agent Bolman said, “I need to find Clayton. Since he isn’t here, we can assume he went with that doll lady.”

  Eloise emitted a sharp laugh and her cheeks flushed as Agent Bolman and Rebecca stared at her. “It’s just that Phillip warned me about making assumptions and then you said, ‘We can assume,’ and I…” Could a hole open in the floor and swallow her up now?

  “He’s right about that,” Agent Bolman’s mushy features contorted into an amused smile. “Let’s say she’s the best lead we have right now.”

  “Then we need to find her.” With her no-nonsense tone, Rebecca took charge of the situation. “Thomas, you go back to the taxi stand. Talk to the dispatcher and the other cabbies. Find out if Velvalee and Phillip took a taxi and, if so, where they went. I’ll get a message to Special Agent Suran.”

  “I’m on it.” Agent Bolman bounded out with as much energy as when he’d arrived.

  “Wait for me.” Eloise started after him, but Rebecca grabbed her by the arm.

  “You’re not going anywhere. At least not until Special Agent Suran gets back.”

  “I have to go,” Eloise insisted. “Phillip needs me.” And I need him.

  “Phillip needs you to do your job.”

  “I can’t find Phillip sitting behind a desk.”

  “You and Phillip know more about this case than anyone,” Rebecca said. “Review everything you’ve done, everything you’ve learned. Find out who took that photograph.”

  Eloise shifted her gaze from Rebecca to the photograph and back again. “How do I do that?”

  “It’s simple. Start with who knew you were in St. Louis.”

  “Nobody knew. Except Richard Whitmer, but he wouldn’t…”

  “He wasn’t the only one.” Rebecca tapped the photograph. “The person who took this did too.”

  “But—”

  “Think of it as a puzzle, Eloise. A code.” Rebecca returned to her desk and picked up the phone. “Solve it.”

  Eloise walked slowly back to the secretarial pool, gingerly carrying the photograph as if it were made of china. She moved aside the piles she’d made reviewing the expense accounts and found a clean sheet of paper.

  Who knew that she and Phillip were in St. Louis?

  Richard knew. Though Eloise couldn’t imagine he had anything to do with the photograph—he certainly wouldn’t have given it to Velvalee—she wrote his name at the top of her list. She retraced their steps from the moment they’d arrived at Union Station until they left, writing down everyone she could think of:

  1. Richard Whitmer

  2. The front desk clerk who checked us in (Note: we used our real names.)

  3. The bellboy who carried our luggage

  4. The salesclerk at the dress shop

  5. Father, his new wife, his bodyguard

  6. Father’s friends at the bar

  7. The clerk at Hotel DeSoto who gave me stationery

  8. Taxi drivers—to and from the Hotel DeSoto

  Perhaps there were other hotel staff but no one significant enough to include in the list. She drew a line through numbers 3, 4, 6, 7, and 8—none of them knew her name—as she postponed admitting the inevitable answer.

  Number 5. Father, his new wife, his bodyguard. Of those three, only one made sense. She drew a circle around Father then tapped the eraser end of the pencil against her chin. Now what?

  She bowed her head in a quiet plea for wisdom to choose her words carefully and strength to stay calm and composed. No accusations. No recriminations. Simply present the facts as she knew them and ask one critical question: Did you hire the photographer?

  After taking a deep breath, she returned to Rebecca’s office.

  “I haven’t heard back from Special Agent Suran,” she said. “I promise I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

  “Thank you.” Eloise held up the sheet of paper. “I made a list.”

  “And?”

  “Is there someplace I can make a private call?”

  Rebecca thought a moment then rose from her desk. “I’ll be in the secretarial pool if you need me.”

  Once the door was closed, Eloise reached for the phone. An operator connected her with her father’s investment firm, but his secretary said he was out for the day. Gathering her courage, she asked the operator to connect her to her father’s home and prayed he’d answer. When his familiar voice came through the line, she blurted, “It’s me. Eloise.”

  “Eloise?” His voice sounded relieved but also wary. “I hoped you’d get in touch again. I wanted to contact you, but I wasn’t sure how to do that. Or if I should.”

  “This isn’t a social call.” She tried as hard as she could to keep her voice steady, but still it wavered.

  “No, of course not.” A beat of silence then, “Are you all right?”

  Eloise bit her lip and stared at the ceiling, praying once again for wisdom and strength. An inexplicable calmness descended around her. She could do this. With Your help, Lord, I can do this.

  “
I can’t give you all the details,” she began then took a deep breath and started over. “When my friend and I were at the train station the morning after…after we talked…someone took our picture. Only a few people knew we were in St. Louis. I need to know if you had anything to do with the photograph. Anything at all?”

  “No.” He gave a short laugh as if suddenly embarrassed. “Though I did do a little snooping.”

  Eloise tensed, her nerves on high alert. “What does that mean?”

  “I know that your friend isn’t in the construction business. That his name isn’t Phillip Carter but Phillip Clayton.”

  “What else?”

  “That he’s with the FBI.” His voice lowered. “So are you.” “If that’s true,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “it’s only temporary.”

  “Are you in trouble, Emmie?” His use of her unusual nickname took her immediately back to those bedtime stories. No one else called her that, only him, a name taken from her initials. Eloise May Marshall. EMM.

  He finished the chapter—always only one—and closed the book. Then he tousled Allan’s hair and kissed Eloise’s temple. “Night, my boy. Sleep tight, my Emmie. I love you two to the moon and back again.” The same routine every time. How could she have forgotten?

  “Eloise?”

  “I’m here.”

  He cleared his throat, and his voice wrapped her in a protective cocoon just as it did all those years ago before he disappeared. “Tell me about the photograph. Why it’s important. Maybe I can find out something for you.”

  She didn’t have the authority to tell him anything—not about the forged letters or the message hidden in a doll’s jacket or the suspected treason. But Phillip was missing, and she’d break any rule to find him. “The photograph and our names were given to a woman we’re investigating. She wrote a message on the photograph threatening me and made sure Phillip saw it. Now they’re both gone. We don’t know where.”

  “In St. Louis?”

  “No, here. In Seattle.” She took a quick breath. “I’m in Seattle.”

  “Where? I’ll come get you and take you somewhere safe. I’ll hire a security detail.”