The Accidental Agent

by Andrew Rosenheim

  He had said this without looking at Percival, wanting to make the man have another think without threatening him so directly that he would find it unmanly to back down. For a moment, it looked to be in the balance, as Percival considered his options and Nessheim looked out the window and saw two MPs lighting cigarettes. When he glanced over, Percival had picked up the phone on his desk. ‘Send Swanson in here right away.’

  They waited in silence, not looking at each other, until there was a knock on the door and a small man in uniform came in – a first lieutenant, Nessheim saw from the bars on his epaulettes. Captain Percival explained that he wanted information on Bergen’s death.

  The little man named Swanson nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I remember it well. It was a hit-and-run – still no progress in locating the driver. We liaised with the local police.’ He looked over at Nessheim.

  Percival said, ‘Mr Nessheim’s not a local dick, Swanson. He’s a Fed, so you needn’t get all nervous.’

  Swanson hesitated and finally said, ‘Bergen got run down on Waukegan Avenue. He had told one of his buddies that he was meeting a friend from New York who was in town. I figure he was walking to catch the bus to go see this friend when it happened. He was on the road because of all the snow.’

  ‘Did anybody see it happen?’ Nessheim asked.

  ‘Sort of. They were behind him.’

  ‘But too far back to get a plate number,’ Percival interjected. It was clear he had heard about this before, and even clearer that he didn’t want to hear it all again.

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t that, sir. The car didn’t have a licence plate. The witness was sure about it – he’d noticed that even before the car hit Bergen.’

  Nessheim said, ‘Any dope on the make of car?’

  Swanson shook his head regretfully. ‘No. A sedan is all they could remember. A dark green sedan.’

  He could see Stacey through the brass-framed glass doors of Carson Pirie Scott & Co.’s famous entranceway: Sullivan the architect had done himself proud with this building. The two-storey rotunda, with its elaborate brasswork, had already been decorated with Christmas lights.

  Stacey was talking with a sales assistant, a dumpy mousy-haired woman in the store uniform of blouse and skirt. She seemed very animated and suddenly hugged Stacey and kissed her on the cheek. In Nessheim’s experience, not many sales assistants did this with customers.

  He tapped the horn and Stacey came out through the doors. He noticed she wasn’t carrying any shopping bags.

  ‘Brrr,’ she said as she closed the passenger door. ‘Home, James, as quick as you can.’

  He turned on Madison heading for Lake Shore Drive. ‘I thought you were going shopping.’

  ‘I was. I just didn’t buy anything. Makes a change, huh?’

  ‘Who was that you were talking to?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Carson’s. Just now by the doors.’

  ‘Oh, just a friend.’

  ‘Does just a friend have a name?’

  ‘Diane.’

  ‘Diane who?’

  ‘Diane Keefer. What’s with all the questions?’

  ‘Did you just happen to run into her?’

  ‘She works at Carson’s. Behind the counter since you seem so curious about her. I had coffee with her during her break. I think it was chicory and it was pretty disgusting, but they give you a cookie to hide the bad taste.’

  He said, ‘You’ve never mentioned any friend in Chicago.’

  ‘I grew up here, remember? Diane and I went to grade school together.’

  ‘I’m impressed you’ve kept up. You haven’t lived here for a long time.’

  She gave a small irritated sigh, then cracked her window and lit a cigarette. She blew out some smoke and said, ‘If you have to know, she was in the Party with me.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Yes. She left at about the same time I did. She’d tell you it was doctrinal disagreements, but I think she just couldn’t stand the meetings. Too much ideology, not enough men.’

  ‘From what I saw of her, she’s more likely to be embraced by the ideology.’

  ‘Very funny,’ she said crossly. ‘Maybe she’s not all-American in the looks department, but not everybody can be a pretty boy. She’s got a good heart, and she’s smart, real smart.’

  ‘Unusual for a Communist.’

  ‘Ex-Communist.’

  ‘Pardon me. So what did you two ex-Communists discuss then?’

  ‘Well,’ said Stacey, in a you are being very stupid about this tone of voice he found unnerving because he knew it was justified, ‘today she told me about her bunions, and I told her about you. It’s called exchanging confidences, and it’s one of the common features of something called friendship, which I would encourage you to learn more about. We can’t all be misanthropes, you know.’

  ‘I’ve got friends,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Of course you do. Winograd’s a great guy.’

  When they got back to the Kimbark apartment, Nessheim went into the kitchen. Shutting the door, he phoned Guttman’s house, but there was no answer. On the off chance that Guttman was working, he tried the office as well, where to his surprise, Marie answered. When he heard a man’s voice in the background he thought he’d found Guttman at last.

  But Marie said, ‘He’s not here, Jim. He did come in at lunchtime but he left a little while ago. I told him you’d called, so he knows you’re trying to reach him –’

  ‘Do you know where he’s gone? I need to speak to him urgently.’

  There was something hesitant in Marie’s voice. She always knew everything about what Guttman was up to; she probably knew his shoe size by now. So he pushed her: ‘I need to know where he is, Marie. Like I say, it’s urgent.’

  ‘He said something about catching a train later on.’

  ‘A train? Where’s he going?’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what? Come on, Marie.’

  ‘Maybe he couldn’t reach you, or maybe he didn’t have time.’ He sensed that Marie was justifying to herself an imminent disclosure, so he waited, controlling his impatience. At last she said, ‘He’s catching the train for Chicago.’

  26

  HE TOOK STACEY out to dinner on 57th Street that night. He wanted to take his mind off Guttman’s impending arrival, for he was mystified by it. Why hadn’t Guttman told him? Presumably he would arrive the following day, but when would he come to see Nessheim? Would he come to see Nessheim?

  The restaurant was a low brick building with a hipped roof of pale green tiles. In front stood an enormous block of painted green wood, roughly the size and shape of an upright canoe, with ‘Tropical Hut’ spelled out in wonky bamboo lettering. Inside you went down from the entrance lobby past the coat check into a big room with exotic decor: fishing nets dangled from the ceiling, threaded with brightly coloured glass lights; pictures of palm trees and grass thatched houses decorated the walls, along with masks and conch shells. All intended to conjure up some imagined Polynesian paradise.

  They sat in a corner booth, partitioned off with slatted screens of split bamboo. Stacey had changed clothes, and wore a deep red roll-neck sweater and grey Oxford slacks. She’d also put on a necklace of worked gold which looked Spanish or Aztec. Nessheim didn’t want to ask who’d bought it for her; even if she’d bought it for herself, he felt bad that he could never match that kind of largesse.

  ‘What is Polynesian food anyway?’ she asked. He looked at the menu, a big book full of pages offering exotic cocktails and a range of ‘Polynesian specialties’ – though since the waitress informed them that pineapple was impossible to obtain, most of these dishes were unavailable.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Stacey, closing her menu book with a thump. ‘Let’s just have the ribs.’

  These proved excellent: long slabs of charcoal-barbecued ribs that had their origins in Mississippi rather than Samoa. They ate ravenously, and stuck to bee
r rather than the Aloha specials. As he finished and wiped his fingers with about his twelfth paper napkin, Nessheim said, ‘I thought tomorrow we could walk out to The Point. It should be beautiful with all the snow, and I bet you the Lake’s frozen by the shore.’

  ‘I can’t, Jim. I promised to help out with something.’

  He resisted the urge to ask what. He’d grilled her enough for one day, he figured. If she wanted to tell him she would.

  Eventually she said, ‘Did you know Negroes can’t buy houses in most of Hyde Park?’

  ‘They can’t buy houses most places. Why are you bringing that up?’

  ‘I think it’s a disgrace. This is supposed to be a liberal community – that’s what President Hutchins is always claiming. Yet the university goes along with housing segregation as if it’s not their concern.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with walking to The Point tomorrow – or not walking?’

  ‘There’s a meeting about it in Mandel Hall. I said I’d go – maybe something will come out of that.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Stacey shot him a look, and he said, ‘Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe in segregation.’

  ‘I know, some of your best friends are Negroes.’

  ‘I don’t have any friends, remember? But a Negro saved my life one time.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, caustic. ‘How?’ Curious now.

  ‘Rescued me from drowning.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. You swim like a fish.’

  ‘God’s truth.’ He held his hand up as if taking the oath.

  ‘Where was this? The pool in Ida Noyes?’

  ‘Long Island Sound.’

  ‘Tell me the story.’

  He shook his head. He knew he kept hinting at his past, but he couldn’t do more than that. Not yet, anyway.

  The waitress now appeared. They were too full for dessert but ordered coffee. Nessheim said, ‘I thought you’d given up politics.’

  ‘I have. But I haven’t given up right and wrong.’

  ‘And I have?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hope not. You seem to think the war’s right.’

  ‘Of course I do. Even back home in Wisconsin, where pretty much everybody’s got German roots, they recognise that Hitler has to be stopped as well as the Japanese. They’re not so wild about our Russian allies, but I can’t say I am either. Not since the Nazi-Russian pact – I thought that was indefensible.’

  ‘You’ll get no argument from me,’ Stacey said. ‘But there are some people who think the Russians need to win the war even more than we do.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ It sounded kooky to him.

  ‘Because only then can “true revolution” proceed everywhere else. That’s what the Fourth International declared.’ She raised both eyebrows.

  ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’ he asked, trying not to sound worried. ‘That we’re fighting for the sake of revolution.’

  ‘I used to.’

  ‘So did Trotsky, and look what happened to him.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’ She seemed taken aback.

  ‘I didn’t say it was. But you know, I don’t think Trotsky would have been any better than Stalin if he had come out on top. Do you?’

  She thought for a moment, then said reluctantly, ‘No, I don’t. I think he would have tried at first to be humane, but then either power would have gone to his head like it did Stalin or he would have been deposed for being too nice.’

  ‘Too weak, don’t you mean?’

  She shrugged. ‘Sometimes too nice and too weak are the same thing.’

  There was a bitterness in her voice which hinted of experiences she was keeping to herself. Nessheim said, a little exasperated, ‘I wish you’d tell me where you’ve been the last few years.’

  ‘I will, when you extend me the same courtesy.’

  Nessheim smiled, but added, ‘At least tell me what changed your mind – you know, about Russia and revolution.’

  ‘I don’t know. Sanity returned.’ She paused. ‘And then I met someone.’

  27

  THAT NIGHT HE came out of sleep and a football-playing dream to hear an alarm clock ringing. No, it wasn’t that; an early riser even in winter, Nessheim had never needed an aural prompt and didn’t own one. What was it then? As he dimly re-entered the world – Stacey emitting a light snore beside him, the features of the bedroom gradually emerging – he realised that the phone was ringing down the hall in the kitchen.

  He threw back the bedclothes and staggered out of the room, cursing the apartment’s former occupant, the Communist philosopher upstairs, for installing the phone in the kitchen at the very rear of the apartment. He hit the light switch in the hall and weaved past the dining-room table, then grabbed the phone.

  ‘Hello.’ He forced a crispness into his voice. At this hour – the kitchen clock said midnight – it had to be news of a death or disaster, unless some lush had dialled the wrong number.

  ‘Meester Nessheim, thank God you are there.’

  Heavily accented English, a pantomime foreigner. ‘Who is that?’ he demanded, wondering if it was some kind of joke.

  ‘It’s Laura Fermi. I am so sorry to call, but Enrico is in Washington and I do not know what to do. I think there is someone upstairs at the very top of the house. They have been there for some time.’

  ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘Police,’ she said, as if it were an odd suggestion. ‘No. Enrico would not allow it.’

  What did that mean? ‘Are the kids all right?’

  ‘Yes. They are downstairs. You see, the door to the top floor is kept locked. But I am sure the person is there.’

  ‘Stay put. I’ll be right over.’

  He put the phone down, wondering if he should call the cops – Enrico’s proscription be damned. But they might be slower than he was to respond, especially once they heard Laura’s accent. He went back quickly to the bedroom, where Stacey was sitting up with the bedside lamp on. ‘Who was that?’ She sounded scared.

  He explained as he threw on his clothes. ‘Why she’s calling me and not the cops, I couldn’t tell you,’ he said crossly as he buttoned his shirt. ‘I gave Fermi the number here, but I didn’t expect to act as his wife’s bodyguard.’

  He left his suit jacket but took his gun and holster from the closet, strapping it carefully around his shoulder. When he looked over, Stacey had got up and was getting dressed. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  He was putting on his shoes now. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. If there’s a burglar in their house, I don’t want you getting in the way.’

  ‘I’ll keep her calm while you flush out the bad guy. The kids know me now – I bet they’re scared to death.’

  He didn’t have time to argue. He went out into the hall and took his heavy duffel coat from the closet. As he opened the front door he found Stacey just a step behind him, miraculously dressed, wearing the padded coat he bet she’d bought to make her look like a student.

  Downstairs in the courtyard, he stopped for a moment, inhaling the dry cold air. ‘I’m not going to drive – it’s only a block away. I’ll see you there – I’m going to run now.’

  He took off then in his street shoes, and almost came a cropper before he even reached the street, since he slid like a hockey puck on the packed icy snow. But soon he got the hang of it: he didn’t try to grip the ground with his feet, but floated, skated and flew along the sidewalk.

  The night was quiet, windless, the only noise an occasional car slithering along 57th Street and the harsh yap of a little dog. Against the snow-white background of the Ray School playground, the stark branches of the elms looked like finely etched figures in a pen-and-ink drawing. As he ran he wondered what he would find when he got there. What kind of burglar stuck around when the occupants stirred in a house?

  The Fermi house on Woodlawn Avenue was ablaze with light. A good sign. He ran up the front steps and as he stopped on the porch the doo
r opened and Laura stood with her hand on her heart in relief. She had brushed her hair, but wore an old quilted housecoat that had lived on two continents, and a pair of oversized slippers.

  He went through into the big front room where he had watched Stacey dance while the world’s leading physicists applauded. Now, standing at the back in the doorway to the kitchen were the two Fermi children, cute as bugs in their pyjamas and bathrobes. They both stared wide-eyed at Nessheim.

  ‘He is still there,’ Laura Fermi declared. ‘I heard noise from the room above our bedroom, at the front of the house on the high floor.’

  ‘Right.’ He unbuttoned his duffel coat but kept it on, not wanting to scare the kids with his gun. ‘I want you to stay down here with the children while I go upstairs. Is the door to the top floor still locked?’

  ‘Yes, here is the key.’ She handed it to him with a slight shiver. She looked very frightened.

  ‘Stacey is on her way.’

  ‘She is?’ She sounded as though Christmas had come early.

  ‘Yes, any minute now. Stay down here for now, okay?’

  He went up the first flight of stairs and moved along the central corridor on the higher floor. Coming to the closed door that sealed off the staircase to the top floor, he stopped to listen for a moment. Nothing. He used the key to open the door, and in the darkness of the stairwell listened again. He heard only noises from downstairs and realised Stacey had arrived. He reached for a light switch and found it at the bottom of the dark stairwell. Kicking his shoes off, he drew the Smith & Wesson from its holster, then walked on tiptoe up to the top-floor landing.

  There were two rooms towards the back of the house, their doors open. The front room, where according to Laura Fermi the noise had come from, was on his right. Its door was closed.