The Accidental Agent

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘Oh, Harry, you gave me such a fright.’

  ‘Likewise,’ he said, bemused. ‘What’s that?’ On the little table next to the sofa, on top of the stacked magazines, there was a little pistol, a .25 Beretta. It was meant to be a lady’s gun, but only a fool would think it couldn’t do what it was supposed to do.

  Annie stared down at the gun. She stammered out, ‘I-I-I thought …’

  ‘Listen, you sit down while I close the front door – if it’ll close any more – and put my case away.’

  She nodded wordlessly and he went out into the hall. Inspecting the door, he saw that the lock had been tampered with – someone had rolled its barrel so hard that the lock wouldn’t close.

  He picked up his briefcase, stomped down the hall and put it in the bedroom, then went into the kitchen, where he turned the light on and fixed two set-ups in tumblers with ice and water before taking them through to the living room. He found Annie sitting in a corner of the sofa and as he turned on another lamp he looked at her. ‘I’m having a large inch of the Director’s special – how about the same for you?’

  ‘It sounds a pretty exotic concoction.’

  ‘Not really. Johnny Walker Scotch – I get a fifth every year for Christmas from Mr Hoover.’

  ‘Even now?’

  He nodded; she was aware of his rifts with the FBI’s head man. ‘However mad he gets at me, I’m still on the Christmas list.The day I don’t get the bottle I’ll know I’m for the high jump.’ Though, conversely, getting the whisky was no guarantee that he wasn’t anyway.

  He went over to the tray in the corner and lifted the bottle of Scotch, which was only half-empty. He wasn’t much of a drinker, and when he had the occasional cocktail before dinner he drank cheaper stuff than this. Now he poured hefty shots into both of the glasses he’d prepared.

  As he handed Annie her drink she smiled a little wistfully. ‘You must think I’m crazy. To come home and find the door like that, and the chair, and then me brandishing a gun.’

  ‘I didn’t see the brandishing,’ he said. ‘But I admit the rest was unexpected.’

  ‘I can explain.’

  ‘I know. But try your drink first.’ He could see she was in a state, and hoped the whisky would calm her down. They sipped in silence for a minute.

  ‘Well,’ Annie said, taking a deep breath. ‘I was up early this morning while it was still dark. When I looked out the window I saw a light on over here. You said you’d be leaving before dawn, and I was worried that you’d overslept. But then I saw that the light was outside the house. I figured you were waving a flashlight, but I wanted to make sure it was you. So I put my shoes on and opened the door.’

  ‘I left real early – at about five.’

  She nodded. ‘This was at six. When I went outside the light wasn’t there. So I started across the street.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go back inside and call the cops?’

  ‘And say what?’ She sounded slightly indignant. ‘ “Officer, I saw a flashlight outside of Harry Guttman’s house – please send a patrol car right away”?’

  He laughed. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘When I got over here I heard a car drive away. I found the front door the way it is now – I think somebody’s picked the lock. I tried to close it as best I could, then went back to get Jeff ready for school.’

  ‘Okay. And then tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘Hold your horses, Harry. I sent Jeff to school, then I got Mrs Jupiter her breakfast and called the Justice to say I couldn’t make it to work. After that I phoned a locksmith – he couldn’t come today, darned man, but he’s due first thing in the morning. If you’re going to work I’ll be glad to wait for him.’

  ‘That’s okay. I hope I didn’t get you in Dutch with the Justice.’

  ‘He understood I couldn’t leave this place with the door open like that. Anyway, the Justice likes you, Harry. He told me once you were his “brother in arms”.’

  Like hell, thought Guttman. He looked again at the gun on the table. ‘Speaking of arms, I didn’t know you had a handgun.’

  When Annie shrugged he added, ‘You could hurt somebody with that, you know.’

  Her face hardened momentarily. ‘I am aware of that. But don’t worry, I don’t carry it around. I keep it on the upper shelf of my closet – safe from Jeff.’

  Guttman nodded. Her son was a nice kid, but curious and energetic, with a boy’s desire to search out everything.

  ‘Well, thank you for guarding the place,’ he said, thinking it would be nice to go to bed.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be back tonight. I figured whoever it was, they could walk straight in.’

  Was there a faint note of reproof in her voice? He realised he wasn’t sounding very grateful. He was; it was just that he was astonished by her initiative. She had been very brave, if also foolhardy. This woman had plenty of guts. Sleeping on his couch with a .25 by her side, ready to defend his house from intruders.

  He took a long draw on his drink, feeling it warm his insides. ‘You’ve done swell, Annie. I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘Did you have a good trip?’ she asked, and he realised she didn’t want to go yet.

  He tried not to yawn. ‘Okay. I saw my mother, which is never a bundle of laughs. I don’t think she’ll be with us much longer.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  I’m not, he thought. ‘She’s not really herself any more. It’ll be a blessing in a way if she moves on sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Was the train okay on your way back? They say there’s snow coming up north.’

  ‘It hasn’t got there yet. Though the power went out in the dining car.’ And the bar car had run out of peanuts. His supper had been two beers.

  ‘So you didn’t have dinner? Harry, you must be starving. Let me make you something.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I can fry an egg.’ Actually, he was too tired to cook anything.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Sit still.’ She ignored his feeble protests and went out to the kitchen, and within five minutes had given him a plate of scrambled eggs and two slices of toast. He realised he was ravenous, and perked up as he ate. He asked about Jeff, and heard about his school grades, and how Mrs Jupiter was starting to go slightly doolally. It was easy, familiar talk, and worked like balm – Guttman realised how agitated his day had been. He felt relaxed now, and suddenly gave a long sleepy yawn before he had time to suppress it.

  Annie smiled. ‘Bedtime for Mr Guttman,’ she said, getting up and taking his plate and fork to the sink. She started to wash them, and before he could say anything asked quietly, with her back to him, ‘Have you heard anything from Jim lately?’

  ‘Not for a week or so.’ She had turned sideways to him, holding a dishcloth in her hand which she used to dry the plate. ‘Have you?’ he asked.

  Her eyebrows arched involuntarily, but she inspected the plate calmly, and put it down on the counter. ‘No, not since he was here last summer.’

  ‘Oh.’ He wondered if Nessheim had another girl now. He hoped not. Poor Annie. ‘He’s got his studies, and he’s also doing some work for me.’

  There was a small, private smile on Annie’s face, and Guttman sensed that his efforts to explain Nessheim’s silence were what was amusing her. He felt confused.

  She said, the smile now gone, ‘I hope it’s nothing dangerous he’s doing for you.’

  He tried to look surprised. ‘No, not at all. Routine stuff. But it keeps him busy – I’m sure that’s why you haven’t heard from him.’ He stopped awkwardly, no longer sure what he thought.

  ‘He’s a sweet guy,’ Annie declared. ‘I hope he’s happy. Someday he’ll find himself a gal who’s right for him.’ She put down the dish towel. ‘You’d better get some sleep, Harry – I’m going to. I’ll be over on Thursday as usual.’

  Harry followed her to the front door and said goodnight, then flicked the switch to turn off the outside light. He watched Annie cross the street and go into M
rs Jupiter’s, then he stood for a minute with the front door open, breathing the cold air and listening as the leaves tumbled in the gutters of the street like whispers.

  17

  IN THE MORNING he woke early, but stayed at home until the locksmith came. It took him almost an hour to change the lock. Guttman retreated to his study to use the phone, wanting to catch Nessheim before he went to class.

  He was surprised when a woman answered, and wondered if he’d got the wrong number. He wanted to hang up, but he had made the call station-to-station, so the operator put him through. ‘Is Nessheim there, please?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ve missed him,’ the woman said. She had a low breathy voice, and didn’t sound like a college girl to Guttman. No wonder Annie hadn’t heard from Nessheim. ‘Can I take a message?’ she asked.

  ‘Tell him Harry called, will you? And get him to call me.’

  ‘Sure I will. Has he got your number? And your last name?’ The woman gave a throaty laugh, which tingled Guttman’s spine like a spa masseur’s roller.

  ‘Yes on both counts. Will you be seeing him, miss?’ He wanted to keep the conversation going.

  ‘Not ’til supper time, Harry. You don’t mind if I call you Harry, do you, Harry?’

  He laughed. ‘Be my guest. Since we’re so familiar now, what would your name be?’

  ‘You can call me MW if you like.’

  ‘Okay. What’s that stand for?’

  ‘Mystery Woman. Don’t worry – I’ll give Nessheim your message. I’ll say bye now, Harry. Nice speaking to you.’

  Guttman put down the phone. It was nine-thirty his time, an hour earlier out there. He couldn’t believe ‘Mystery Woman’ had gone to Nessheim’s place just for breakfast. Was she shacking up with the guy? It sounded that way. Guttman thought of that voice again, and felt a mixture of envy and alarm.

  He got to the office just after eleven, stopped a floor below his office and went down the hall to Records and Files. A young man in round-framed spectacles and wearing a bow tie came out from the stacks to the counter.

  ‘Where’s Ant?’ asked Guttman impatiently.

  ‘Mr Antrim has transferred to the Armory.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘I believe on reflection that it was in May.’ Spoken like a small-town librarian, intent to show he was more cultured than the provincial baboons he was employed to serve.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Luther Toobis.’

  Guttman nodded, as if he’d been expecting this remarkable moniker. ‘Well, Luther, I want to check a Germ-Am file.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The German-American Index. It’s the sympathisers directory.’

  ‘Ah, of course,’ the man said, as if the misunderstanding were Guttman’s fault. ‘What was the name?’

  Guttman told him, trying to suppress his irritation. Luther said, ‘I’ll just go and see.’

  The Toobis guy was quick; you had to hand him that. He couldn’t have been more than two minutes. ‘Nothing in the index, I’m afraid. And of course no file.’

  ‘Of course.’ Guttman paused. ‘While we’re at it, could you have a look at the ACP register?’

  The man tilted his head until he was looking at Guttman over the tops of his glasses. ‘The ACP register? Same name?’ He sounded incredulous.

  Guttman’s patience snapped. He had been pulling files while this kid was in short pants. ‘Son, just do what I ask.’

  Luther didn’t dignify this with a reply. This time he was a little longer in the file rooms – sulking, Guttman figured. But when he returned he looked puzzled. ‘He’s listed in the register all right, but there’s no file.’

  ‘You mean there never was a file?’

  ‘I don’t know. My understanding is that for a name to be listed in the register it has to have a file. I guess I was wrong.’

  I don’t think so, thought Guttman. ‘What was the register code?’ he asked. There was a hierarchy for American Communists: M for member, S for sympathiser, A for associations with.

  ‘A,’ said Luther.

  ‘Right. Now tell me, are the case files still here?’ There was something else he needed to check, he realised, now that he’d learned that Grant’s file had gone missing, but he was still reeling from discovering which directory Grant’s name could be found in.

  ‘It depends on the years,’ said Luther.

  ‘I’m talking before the war – 1935 to 1940.’

  ‘Those would be at the Armory. Only wartime and current are here now.’ Then, mistaking Guttman’s newly relaxed air for friendliness, he said, ‘How come you asked me to search both ways for this guy Grant?’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Well, I can understand if someone’s a Nazi, and I can understand if they’re a Communist. But you had me look at both registers.’

  ‘Got to cover the bases,’ said Guttman, trying to hide how startled he felt.

  He left and took the stairs rather than the elevator. Perkins had been murdered all right, and Grant had been sent in his place. But not because the Germans had sent him there.

  As he came into his suite, Marie looked up and smiled. She always seemed happy to see him. ‘How’s your mom, Harry?’ she asked.

  ‘Not so hot,’ he said, and this was true.

  ‘You see anybody else up there?’

  ‘How’s that?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘I don’t mean business, Harry. I mean, did you have any fun?’

  Fun? He had almost forgotten the word. Marie was watching him sympathetically. Or was it pity? He said gruffly, ‘I’ve got a call to make.’

  ‘Okay. Don’t forget your supper date.’

  ‘What supper?’

  Marie exhaled with frustration. ‘Our supper. You’re coming over day after tomorrow.’

  There had been a lot of invitations in recent months from Marie. Had he actually accepted one? It looked that way. The prospect exhausted him but he nodded knowingly. Marie said, ‘Six-thirty, Harry. I’ll write the address down. If you forget, so help me I’ll brain you.’

  It took twenty minutes to track down the Chairman of the Physics Department, and only thirty seconds for Guttman to be surprised again.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes, Mr Guttman. I am absolutely sure. I saw him forty minutes ago and he was late for a seminar.’ The Chairman sounded impatient.

  ‘He hasn’t ever worked at Columbia?’

  ‘Not during my time here. And that’s been ten years.’

  ‘Or been working in Chicago in the last twelve months?’

  The man sighed. ‘Nor working in Chicago. Since it’s eight hundred miles away, I think I’d be aware of that. Now I think of it, Professor Grant did spend one term at the Institute for Advanced Studies a few years back.’

  ‘Where was that?’ asked Guttman, his hopes rising.

  ‘Here in Princeton, Mr Guttman. Sorry to disappoint you.’

  When he put the phone down, Marie came in. ‘Mr Tolson called. He dropped by yesterday. He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ll call him now.’

  Marie shook her head. ‘He wants to see you in his office.’

  ‘When?’ He was puzzled by the formality of Tolson’s request. Usually when he wanted to talk to Guttman, the Associate Director would come down and stick his head in through the door. Not that such informality meant anything – as he stood hanging by an arm from the doorway, Tolson was equally happy to shoot the breeze or berate him.

  ‘You’ve got ten minutes,’ said Marie, who though watch-less always seemed able to tell the time within a minute or two. Guttman, with the chunky Swiss watch his wife had bought him for a birthday, usually found he’d forgotten to wind the goddamned thing.

  He slapped one cheek, trying to stir himself. A Tolson summons meant trouble, and Guttman would need all his wits about him. Out of self-preservation he had to duck Hoover’s sidekick for now. ‘I’ve got to go out. I’ll see T
olson later.’

  ‘What do I tell him?’ Marie asked with alarm.

  Guttman was already grabbing his coat. ‘Tell him I had to see the doctor. Tell him it was urgent. Tell him I have a bad case of … I don’t know. Corns.’

  ‘Corns? Harry, that will never wash.’

  Harry hunched both shoulders helplessly. ‘Tell him it’s serious. Think up something, okay? If he’s free later, I’ll see him after lunch.’

  He was out the door before Marie could protest any more.

  He checked his watch in the elevator and decided it was safe to leave the building now. Tolson wouldn’t be leaving for another half-hour – with Hoover to have lunch, as they did daily at the nearby Mayflower Hotel.

  They also drove to work together each morning, and drove home together at the end of the day. They were like a married couple whose mutual fascination had never flagged. Isabel, who knew some French, had told Guttman it was a marriage blanche, and contrary to the furtive commentary that was rife, Guttman was also convinced the relationship was entirely asexual. To Guttman, Hoover was as sexless as the Sphinx. If Tolson was not so neutral, his outlet must have been among the succession of handsome young agents working directly for him. Like his young assistant T.A. whom Marie liked so much.

  What struck Guttman was that the emotional life of the Hoover–Tolson relationship also seemed inordinately sublimated, even in the privacy of their chauffeured car. Their driver Smitty had in an unguarded moment told Guttman that their demeanour was as unrelaxed there as in the office. They sat stiffly in the back of the chauffeured car, while Tolson deferred like an obedient junior to Hoover’s opinions on everything, from the vulgarity of a billboard they drove by to the shortcomings of the Dallas Field Office. Tellingly, even alone with the man, Tolson addressed Hoover as ‘Boss’.

  Guttman now had lunch in a diner off DuPont Circle. It was far enough from the Justice Department building that he could be confident of not seeing anyone from work. He sat on a low stool at the counter, eating a grilled cheese sandwich and drinking a soda, letting the events of the last two days sink in.