The voice sounded like Maggie, Myers’ secretary, giving him a coded answer. After thanking her, he rang off and tried to remember what the answer meant. He knew if “Hoover” were out, the report should not be sent, but Maggie, who could have taken the report herself (after all, she typed them up for the files) had said “Mrs. Hoover” as well. Myers didn’t have a wife, so the message made no sense. The reference to Hoover’s return tomorrow probably meant that he should try again tomorrow - but to make sure, Curt opened his suitcase to look for the files Myers had given him on Elizabeth Aikens and Alfredo Baca to see if something more was intended. There were two Xeroxed sheets of phone codes Myers had told him to memorize but he had not paid much attention. It had seemed too melodramatic on such simple cases he was investigating.
Opening his bag, he thought something was strange. For one thing his clothes seemed to be packed much more neatly than usual. Everything was folded in correct places, which was not his usual way. Generally, he just threw things in without any care about order. Second, his files were in reverse order. He had looked at the Baca file last but the Aikens file was on top. Smiling, Curt sat down on the bed and had a moment of mirth. So they had gone through his things! It was almost too much. He had read enough detective novels not to miss the implications, and the silliness of the whole escapade made him want to laugh out loud.
My God, he thought, think of the manpower being used in this case! He had seen at least three, maybe four, different operatives following him in Santa Fe, another in the lobby, and now this! At $500.00-a- day plus expenses, he could see that a lot of money was being spent for nothing.
Digging out his sheets of codes, he read down to the message Maggie had given him and was surprised. The “Mrs. Hoover is out” meant that he was to stop all investigations and wait for further instructions. That was it. With a sigh, Curt sat on the edge of his bed and tried to sort it out. Myers could have told him this and given an explanation for it at the same time. Of course, there could have been an emergency, and maybe he could not be at the office tonight, but Maggie could have filled him in. Apparently, they didn’t want to communicate by telephone. Remembering his re-arranged baggage, Curt almost broke out in a laugh. Maybe, he thought, they believe my phone is bugged!
Still smiling, he took the phone off the receiver, hesitated, replaced it, and jumped across the room to turn on the television with the sound turned high. If they want to be melodramatic and play spy, he thought, I’ll accommodate them.
Removing the end piece, he found a small circular disk stuck in beside the regular transmitter of the phone. Carefully, so as not to produce any sounds, he replaced the end piece and unscrewed the other, at the receiver end of the phone. Sure enough, there was one there, too. It was logical. If someone managed to get into his room to examine his files, why shouldn’t they leave bugs? Another thought hit him. Quietly he began examining the undersides of the various pieces of furniture in the room. As he looked under the bedside table, he had to hold his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. There, under the table and only viewable by a person lying on the floor as he was, were two different kinds of listening devices.
After his body quit shaking from his suppressed laughter, and with tears in his eyes, he got up and sat in one of the chairs next to the window. I now understand why people go into this business, he thought. It was pure fun - like hide and seek or capture the flag. It was equally childish as well, and to think of four or five grown men involved in such escapades was almost too much to bear.
Trying not to think about the ridiculousness of it all, he turned his thoughts back to Myers’ message. Of course, Myers didn’t know that he had decided to work on the Baca case in earnest, so that his message obviously had meaning only for the Aikens matter. Also, if he were going to help Sheila, he could do that as long as she didn’t interfere with whatever the agency decided to do about Elizabeth. He couldn’t understand why Myers had called off that investigation, even if temporarily. He really had not accomplished anything except his talk with Sheila, which didn’t seem to be that important.
He gave up, noted the time, and decided to call it a day. The best thing he could do would be to get back to Albuquerque without trailing all those operatives along behind him. The thought was a bit sobering. He could probably lose them in Santa Fe., but they’d find him in Albuquerque soon enough. How the devil could he operate with an entourage of agents behind him? Well, the best thing to do now was to get away from them so that he could ask Myers what to do. Maybe some pressure back in San Francisco would call them off. With the television blaring wildly, he showered and laid out his clothes for the next day. His plan was not that ingenious, but at least it was a plan.
With his bag packed and ready to go, he turned off the television, and quite loudly phoned the desk clerk for a wake-up call at 7:00 a.m. Then he sat his wristwatch alarm for 4:00.
Sheila Cavanaugh arranged her pillows so that she could read comfortably in bed. Roscoe, or George, she still had not yet decided what to call him, stretched out luxuriously at the foot of the bed. This was the umpteenth night she had waited for them and frankly, she was getting tired of it all and a bit more than angry. Moreover, she was not really sure there was a “them.” But something was going on, something weird, and in spite of Elizabeth’s calm and amusing manner of relating that something, she must have been terribly upset. Sheila, too, was upset and furious about it all.
She was most angry with herself. Upon both occasions when she could have done something about them, she had acted like a ninny. The first time, she had been in the dining room, paying bills and trying to catch up on her correspondence. When she had heard the noises in the living room, she had rushed out the back door to the neighbors like a frightened fool and called the police. They had responded quickly, but had found no one. In fact, the police had said that the prowlers must have left by the back door, as the front was still locked with the inside dead-bolt lock. The second time, she had inched her way to investigate, arriving too late to find anything.
It was very embarrassing and somewhat frightening, until she remembered Elizabeth’s letters – which had begun her anger. What sort of people would break into the house so many times, take nothing, and just make their presence known before leaving? It was also dangerous. Elizabeth had had her pistol. So she had toured the animal pound and selected Roscoe, or George, a very large and fierce-looking male. Moreover, she had installed new dead-bolt locks on the doors. And, if they had had a means of opening the old, she made sure that these could only be opened from the inside. When they tried to fiddle with the new locks, Roscoe, or George, should alert her and she would get to the bottom of this business quickly. Then there was that interesting private investigator, Curt Jenson.
She smiled when she remembered how different he appeared from the picture she had formed of him before he came. When Uncle Charles had told her that an “operative” from San Francisco was coming, she had pictured a man in his 40’s, a cross between Humphrey Bogart and Tom Selleck: a smooth urbanite who would be guarded and non-committal. Instead, Curt Jenson was open and candid, handsome in a rugged sort of way, and as much involved with Elizabeth’s predicament as she was. He certainly did not fit her picture of what private investigators were. Moreover, he had qualities that made her feel good about herself when she was around him. It was pleasing to think that they would be working together for the next few days or so. In fact, she warned herself, she had better keep her mind on what they working on or there could be quite a complication in her life.
At 4:05 Curt reached through the window of his VW, inserted the key and turned it only as far as necessary to release the steering wheel lock. He pushed his car away from the building, then out of the motel parking lot. If he turned left, he would have a downhill run for several blocks, so he steered to the left. The streets were empty. As his VW began accelerating downhill, he opened the door and jumped in, holding the door ope
n until he was two blocks away. Then he shut the door, turned the key on, put it in third gear, released the clutch, and after the engine started, turned on his lights. Six blocks away, he turned off the main street into a residential neighborhood, circled the block and turned off his engine and lights, watching the main street to see if he was being followed. After ten minutes, satisfied, he turned on his engine and headed for Albuquerque.
It was 6:15 before he reached his new motel room on Central Avenue. At 6:20, his phone rang.
“Your room is clean, so we can talk.”
“Myers! How did you know I’d be in this motel and this room?”
“Rodriguez tailed you from Santa Fe. Incidentally, you dropped only two of your followers. ”
“I thought I was doing quite well .”
“You’ve watched too much TV. All of those guys are not amateurs - which brings up what I want to talk to you about. Those agents we can’t trace? Well, we’ve definitely ID’d one as a Fed - a real pro. Did you find the bugs in your room?”
“Yes- several in fact”.
“Well, for some reason you picked up all these guys following you at Cavanaugh’s house in Albuquerque. There’s no telling how long they’ve been there, or what they’re there for, so Elizabeth’s voices could be part of it.”
“You mean they purposely wired her house to unsettle, to disturb…”
“Sounds stupid, I know, but we don’t know what their ultimate purpose was. Which brings me to the main points I want to make. There’s been a new development. You’ve also been tailed by three citizens from Albuquerque, all respectable, who have never been involved in anything more spectacular than church outings. We’re checking all three, but we’ve managed a sheet only on one so far. His name is James Burke - born in St. Louis on January 12, 1951, died in the same city in June, 1951, obtained his social security and driver’s license in 1980 and currently has a sporting goods store on Central Avenue. This is a profile of someone creating a new identity. He just sent in a request for a birth certificate of someone without a past - of a child who died shortly after birth, then built an entire identity on it.”
“Well. what does that mean?”
“Could mean a lot of things, Curt. Sometimes agents build these alternative identities that way when working on tight cases, but since these guys are living their identities, there’s only three or four reasons. For instance, the police sometimes protect witnesses from retaliation by creating new lives for them, or foreign governments sometimes plant agents in this country, we call them ‘moles’, and have them lead normal lives until they’re called upon for special cases.”
“You think these guys are foreign agents?”
“I can’t draw any other conclusion. Why would someone hiding suddenly start surveillance? And why is the federal government interested in this case?”
There was a silence as both men tried to make sense of it all.
“The upshot,” Myers concluded, “is that this is not a simple case of finding Elizabeth Aikens anymore. We didn’t know this when we sent you out there.”
“Don’t worry about me, Myers,” Curt answered. “Not only is the Aikens thing messed up, but I’m going to give the Baca case a real shot.”
“If you’re still going to go through with it that might not be a bad idea. It would keep them guessing. Do you think you’ll have the time?”
“I don’t know. Sheila Cavanaugh is in this as deeply as I am. If those guys have been watching her all this time they must think she’s involved in whatever they’re looking for, so I’ll have to put in time in Albuquerque.”
“Do you have a report to file?”
“Just a minute. I made one out last night and it’s in my bag”.
After recounting his efforts on the Baca case, Curt waited for Myers to think it out.
“Could be you might find this Baca on some skid row. Does Hawkins seem to know what he is talking about?”
“He impressed me as an honest, down-to-earth type. I don’t think he was selling me a bill of goods.”
“Well, Curt, I’ll be honest with you. I don’t like this Aikens situation. We’re playing out of our league now. And since we can’t match those people, you might find yourself in too deep…”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I want you to consider getting out of it before you get hurt. In a way, I’m ticked off at Aikens and those lawyers of his sending us into something like this.”
“Hold on there, Myers! Why should we cut and run? These guys out here are annoying, but they’re obviously onto the wrong trail. Unless Elizabeth was involved in high espionage, they’re wasting their time.”
“Maybe so. But how are you going to convince…”
“I’ve thought about that, and I think I can set things straight in a few days.”
“Don’t do anything to…”
“Don’t worry, Myers. I know this is my first field case, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Ok, kid. Give it a shot and, incidentally, don’t report tonight unless something important kicks up; and, when you do call in, pick a phone booth far away from your motel room.”
As they rang off, Curt was already plotting his next meeting with Sheila Cavanaugh. He had to find out what she wanted him to do, but he had to proceed cautiously. He knew he was probably right, that his followers were on the wrong trail, but being right was not enough. He had to let it be known that what he was doing had no significance to anyone outside the family. He smiled as he reflected on how stupid the situation was, but stupid or not, it could get rough.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS NEARLY 11:00 A.M. when Curt rang the doorbell at 1214 Silver S.E. Sheila’s voice on the telephone had been warm and slightly excited as she had agreed to an immediate meeting and he found himself eagerly anticipating her opening the door. Roscoe, or George, had given only one short bark after he rang, and, as the door was opened, the dog merely eyed him suspiciously as he accepted Sheila’s invitation to enter.
“He’s learning very quickly, don’t you think?” she asked with a smile as she closed the door.
“Learning what?”
“Oh, what to expect, what is normal, what or whom he should bark at and so forth. That’s a good boy,” she said, patting Roscoe, or George.
Curt thought how nice it was to be with her, no matter how she figured in this case. She had a warmth and vitality that made even commonplace actions and words seem worthwhile and exciting.
“Listen,” she said, “I know your time is valuable, and I also know I’m about to starve; why don’t we talk while I fix lunch?”
Curt agreed with a laugh and Sheila led the way into the kitchen.
It was a large, old-fashioned room with a breakfast table in the corner, surrounded by windows. Curt sat at the table while Sheila began gathering items.
“Tuna salad OK?” she asked.
At his nod, she continued. “I know you think it odd that I was not concerned with the voices Aunt Elizabeth wrote about in her letters, especially when you think they are so important.”
As she poured, Curt agreed; although he wondered where she was going.
“Well, I don’t believe they have anything to do with her disappearance because I have heard them also.”
Curt tried to keep his surprise from showing; but as she was still intent on mixing the ingredients for the tuna salad, she would not have noticed anyway.
“Do you mean,” he said, “that you have heard someone prowling around in the house?”
“Let me tell you the whole story and then we can analyze it together.” She then related the two incidents, emphasizing the locked door. Because of this, she had firmly concluded that no one could have gotten into the house.
“So,” she continued, “there seemed to me to be four possibilitie
s. One, and the one I believe most likely, is that something in the living room is acting like a receiver so that the sounds we heard were really talk shows, like Elizabeth suggested, picked up and broadcast.”
“I’ve heard of refrigerators doing something like that.”
“That’s right. The second possibility is that someone was trying to upset Elizabeth by purposely making her think her mind was going. They could have planted a transmitter somewhere in the house.”
“I see”. John replied. “Sort of a planned destabilizing set of incidents?”
“Yes, in a way. I really don’t know what Aunt Elizabeth was doing in South America. She wrote that she was helping people help themselves, but I always thought, - that is, I had assumed – she meant building schools, digging wells, and so forth. She mentioned contacts with all sorts of people who could help, and this included some pretty strange characters, as well as sympathetic members of governments. Maybe there was more to it than I thought. So these voices could be part of a campaign to disrupt her plans or something.”
“But doesn’t this seem rather far-fetched?” Curt asked, rather non-plussed that she had arrived at this conclusion.
“Yes, it does; but I’m trying to account for every possibility. Here,” she said as she passed a plate with sandwich fixings. “You’ll have to fix your sandwich the way you like.”
She put the ingredients on the table, sat down and began spooning the salad onto a slice of toasted bread. Curt did likewise, noting the contrast between the bizarre subject of their conversation and the ordinariness of their actions. The strange part of it all to him was that he did not think it strange.
“Far-fetched as it might seem” she said between bites, “This scenario has a sort of logic to it. For instance, if this was set up to affect Aunt Elizabeth, it could still be going on because I moved in and they, whoever they are, have not had a chance to remove their equipment. I doubt that anyone has any reason to want to frighten me.”
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