The Accidental Agent

by Andrew Rosenheim

  Guttman said, ‘I haven’t told them about our conversation the other day. As far as I’m concerned, they don’t need to know anything about her political associations.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Nessheim dully.

  Then Guttman surprised him. ‘Actually, the cops aren’t sure it was a suicide either. That’s why they want to talk to you again.’

  ‘I know she was murdered – so do you. I want to find out why.’

  Guttman shifted uncomfortably. ‘There’s a problem. If the police don’t like your answers, they may want to arrest you. You’d never get bail in such a public case.’ He nodded towards the pile of newspapers.

  ‘Do they think I killed her?’

  Guttman’s expression gave nothing away. ‘Like you, they’re thinking she didn’t go out the window on her own. They plan to tell the papers that tomorrow – it will make them look like they’re on top of things. Making an arrest would be the icing on the cake.’

  ‘Why me? She was dead before I entered the apartment. I heard her scream on the way down.’

  ‘Sure, but how can you prove that? Especially when they found your prints in the apartment.’

  ‘Of course they did. I was there – I’m not denying that.’

  ‘Most of the prints they found are in the bedroom.’ Guttman looked down at the floor, and Nessheim remembered there was a prudish streak in him. ‘But they also found some on the window in the living room …’

  ‘They would have done. I was at the window – that’s where I saw her on the ground.’

  Guttman nodded awkwardly. There was something going on here that Nessheim didn’t understand, something Guttman didn’t want to say but clearly felt he had to. Guttman said at last, ‘The thing is, the window was open, right? I mean,’ and he hesitated, ‘it had to be, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it was wide open.’

  ‘Exactly. And it was open when the police first got there. So how did your prints get on the glass? The window slides sideways to tuck behind the window next to it. Your prints would have been on it only if it were shut.’

  Nessheim now saw what Guttman was getting at: the police were thinking he had opened the window, then somehow bundled Stacey out of it. He also realised how his prints had got there. ‘The only time I stayed over there, I got up in the middle of the night and went out to the living room. I opened the window then because I wanted to hear the Lake. I’d have left prints all over it.’

  It sounded lame, he knew that, and he felt the need to stare at Guttman until Guttman finally nodded. Nessheim said, ‘I need some time, Harry. There are people I need to talk to.’

  ‘What are you hoping to discover?’

  ‘I want to find out why Stacey came to Chicago and I want to know why she lied to me. If it turns out you’re right about the reasons, I’ll be the first to say so. Either way, that will tell me why she was murdered.’

  Guttman thought about this, then finally said, ‘I have to make a couple of calls.’

  ‘There’s a phone in the kitchen,’ said Nessheim, pointing next door. His voice was hoarse and flat.

  ‘Why don’t you go wait in the living room while I’m on the phone?’

  It wasn’t a request.

  It took a while before Guttman reappeared. Nessheim paced around while he waited, at one point going into the bedroom where he picked up Stacey’s nightgown, which still carried the faint aroma of her lilac scent. Back in the living room he stared out through the window towards Kimbark Avenue, where an eerily low sun had now melted most of the remaining snow. He felt numb and sick at the same time. Why had he written to Stacey? He should have talked to her face-to-face, and listened to her side of the story. Now he desperately wanted to get out of there, scared that at any moment the cops would arrive and take him out in handcuffs. Then he would never unravel the mystery of Stacey Madison. He was on the verge of grabbing his coat and running for it when Guttman came down the hall.

  ‘I’ve bought you forty-eight hours. But you’ve got to keep your head down. I don’t want the cops to spot you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they think you’re in Wisconsin. I’ve told them you’ll turn yourself in when you come back.’

  ‘Thanks, Harry.’ He knew how big a gamble Guttman was taking on him. ‘There’s something I didn’t mention. On my way up the stairs to Stacey’s apartment I ran into an old lady who was on her way down because the elevator wasn’t working. I was going to help her, but then I heard the scream. The cops claim they couldn’t find her – they acted like I’d invented her. But when I looked out the window of Stacey’s apartment, I saw her again. She was trying to get the doorman to help her find a cab. But he –’ and he stopped, not wanting his voice to break.

  ‘Okay. Let me try and find her. Anything else?’ When Nessheim shook his head dumbly, Guttman said, ‘Then give me your keys, will you?’

  ‘Why do you want my keys?’

  ‘If you’re meant to be in Wisconsin, you can’t sleep here, now can you? The cops will check, believe me. So I’ll stay here – they’ll think I’m waiting for you to come back. And you can stay in my room at the faculty place. But keep your head down, okay?’

  ‘All right. Let me just take my car key.’ Nessheim started to work it off the key ring.

  ‘Give me that, too – I don’t want you driving your car. They’ll be looking for it.’

  ‘But I need my car.’

  ‘You can use these,’ Guttman said, handing over two keys on a thin wire hoop. ‘It’s not ideal, I know, but I don’t see that we’ve got much choice. These are for Stacey’s car – I parked it round the corner.’

  34

  THE MADISON PLACE was in mansion country, miniature estates carved out of the land adjacent to the shoreline of Lake Michigan. Easily commutable to the Loop for the wealthy businessmen who made their fortunes there, but a world away from the city, with a mix of lawns, patches of woods, and sandy beach. And gargantuan houses.

  He parked outside the property, worried that arriving in Stacey’s car might give her mother a Lazarus-like moment. He walked through the entrance gates, an elaborate iron pair as high as those at Stagg Field, then moved along an asphalt track, which first wound through a thin stand of birch, then suddenly opened up to reveal the house.

  It was a mock-Georgian pile of orange brick, with white Doric columns the height of the roof on either side of the front door. Ivy covered the front facade, creeping over the large sash windows of the two upper floors.

  He was about to push the doorbell when he saw that the front door was just ajar. He knocked and pushed simultaneously, then stepped into a big hall, with a curved staircase to one side that had more banister than stairs. A small Negro woman in a maid’s uniform was dusting a side table in the hall as he came in. She didn’t seem surprised by his arrival.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Nessheim. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Madison.’

  ‘Are you the funeral man?’

  In his suit and tie, Nessheim understood the confusion. ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘You selling something? She won’t see no salesman. Her daughter’s passed two days ago.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here about. I knew Stacey.’

  The woman gave out a noise that went hmmpphh. ‘You’ll find her mother in the conservatory. Go down the hall and turn right. It’s on the far side of the living room and the first person you’ll find will be Mrs M – there ain’t nobody else here to see. If she offers you coffee, please say no – I ain’t got time to make it. She wants the wake here and I got too much to do readying the house.’

  He walked along a hall and turned into a vast living room full of chintz chairs and padded sofas with views of the shoreline several hundred yards away. He could see a big freighter a few miles out, chugging towards Gary. A pair of open French doors led into the conservatory, where he stepped into a bath-like fug of heat and potted plants. At the far end enough space had been carved out for a recliner seat, and standing next to it, staring ou
t through the glass windows towards Lake Michigan, was Mrs Madison.

  She was taller than her daughter had been, blonder with her hair swept back in a big leonine wave, and slightly heavier. There was a housecoat on the recliner which Nessheim sensed was her usual costume here, but now she wore a black wool dress. It was a little tight on her.

  ‘Yes?’ she said as he walked towards her. She had a large high-cheekboned face, with a strong jaw and set-apart hazel eyes. Like Stacey she wore little make-up. This was a woman confident of her appeal – though in a beauty contest, her daughter would have won, and Nessheim somehow sensed this would have rankled the older woman. ‘Are you here about the flowers or the coffin?’ From her voice and the glass in her hand he could tell she had already started on the sauce.

  ‘Neither, Mrs Madison. I was at law school with your daughter.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  He hesitated because he was supposed to be in Wisconsin, but he couldn’t see any reason why the police would hear about his visit. ‘James Nessheim,’ he said.

  She shook her head; clearly it didn’t mean anything to her. He said, ‘I just wanted to pay my respects.’

  ‘Were you friends with my daughter?’

  ‘Yes. Good friends.’

  ‘Did you know Tweedy?’ Her voice hardened.

  ‘Her husband? No, I didn’t.’

  The woman gave a derisory laugh. ‘I’m not surprised. I called Tweedy last night to tell him Stacey had died. His houseboy said he was in a meeting. He hasn’t called back.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘The funeral’s a week from Thursday – you might tell her friends. Eleven o’clock at Saint Barnabas church, here in Highland Park.’

  ‘Do you need any help with the arrangements?’

  ‘That’s very kind, but no, thank you.’ She said this as if by rote, and Nessheim could see she was already stinko. She added abruptly, ‘Who did you say you were again?’

  ‘Nessheim. Stacey called me Jim. I used to know her years ago when she was in college at the U of C. It was a big surprise for me to have her turn up in Chicago again.’

  ‘You weren’t the only one who was surprised.’

  ‘Why did she come back to Chicago? I mean, California’s full of law schools.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t to see me, that’s for sure. She was happy for my help getting in, but was she grateful enough to visit? Not on your life.’

  ‘Well, law students are pretty busy.’

  ‘If you say so. Anyway, she probably did it out of love.’

  ‘For Tweedy?’ he asked, confused.

  ‘You kidding me? She never loved that schmo.’

  ‘But she married him.’

  She took a slug of her gin, tilting the upheld glass so the liquid got past the ice cubes faster. She held the glass by her side, her lipstick glistening. ‘You’re old enough to know not many people marry for love.’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why.’ She lifted her head and viewed him appraisingly. ‘Anyway, she changed.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because of LA,’ she said flatly. ‘And the schmo. He was rich … and dumb … and liked to hang out with the Hollywood bunch. From the sound of it, half the people in pictures are Reds. So Stacey went to Mexico – I think she hoped he’d grow up a bit while she was gone. But of course he didn’t, so she came out here.’

  ‘She used to be interested in politics.’

  ‘That went sour. Or south,’ she added with a titter that ended in a slur of consonants. Sobering, she said, ‘If you ask me, I think she had another guy going. In her head, anyway.’

  ‘Who would that be?’

  ‘Stacey stopped confiding in me when she was about twelve.’ She shook her head; her great lion’s mane of hair didn’t move an inch. ‘You see that pitcher over there? Top me up, will you? And help yourself.’

  He went to the drinks trolley and picked up the pitcher. It had a lily painted on one side, and smelled of straight gin. As he refilled her glass she said, ‘You sure you won’t join me?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He stepped back and set the pitcher down on the tray, while she took a long pull on her drink. Then she said, ‘You’ve got very fine hands for such a good-looking guy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘You know what they say?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he replied, hoping to be spared the disclosure.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said.

  ‘I think I’d better be going,’ he said quietly. Stacey’s mother gripped her glass so hard that the veins on her hand stood out.

  ‘Forget about the funeral,’ she hissed as he turned to go. ‘It’s family only.’

  As he crossed into the living room he heard her start to cry, and then he heard the words she was saying in between her sobs. My baby, my baby.

  35

  AS HE DROVE south along the Lake, it began to snow. Flakes the size of night moths spooled across his windshield, then stuck like pasty glue. The wipers in Stacey’s car moved a beat behind, and he drove with his eyes staring until they felt strained as the road ahead alternately receded then emerged from the swirl of snow. He wanted to concentrate on his driving, but the mystery of Stacey’s return was haunting him.

  Was he the other guy her mother had mentioned? If so, how could Stacey in LA decide that she loved a man she hadn’t seen in years? It seemed incredible. There must have been some other reason why she sought him out, something which had precipitated her flight from LA. He didn’t want to believe it was because Stacey was following NKVD orders. But then what else could it have been?

  He found Diane on the ground floor, working behind one of the perfume counters. Nessheim hung back, inspecting the potions and lotions arranged on an adjacent glass-topped counter until Diane came across to him. She wore the store uniform of white blouse and brown skirt that did her figure no favours. She was about his own age, with a doughy face and dull almond-coloured eyes.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked without enthusiasm.

  ‘Are you Diane?’

  Her eyes showed her surprise. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I was a friend of Stacey’s. I wonder if we could talk for a minute.’

  ‘Why do you want to talk to me?’ She sounded upset.

  ‘She said you were an old friend.’

  Nessheim took his ID folder out from his jacket pocket. He flipped the badge holder open, with his photo beneath it and his name in bullet type – ‘SPECIAL AGENT JAMES NESSHEIM’.

  She glanced at the badge. ‘I don’t have to talk to you.’ Her tone was only semi-defiant; she was scared.

  ‘Look at my ID, please, Diane.’

  ‘I can read. It says you’re a Fed.’

  ‘Read the name below the badge.’

  Reluctantly she looked down. Then she picked up the badge holder and stared at it with disbelief.

  ‘You’re Nessheim?’ Her voice was incredulous.

  ‘Yes,’ he said mildly.

  Her face relaxed. ‘I thought you were supposed to be a student now.’

  ‘I am. She knew I was a Fed as well. There were never any flies on Stacey.’

  ‘There sure weren’t.’ She added wistfully, ‘Not even a cobweb. My break’s in ten minutes if you can wait.’

  He waited in a coffee shop around the corner, where he sat in a booth in the back facing the door. She came in twenty minutes later, and he saw she’d touched up her make-up and brushed her hair.

  She slid awkwardly into the booth and sat across from him. She said nervously, ‘I want to go to the funeral but I don’t know when it is.’

  ‘Next Thursday at eleven in Highland Park.’ He named the church.

  ‘Did you get that from Stacey’s mom?’

  ‘Yeah. I just came from her.’

  ‘How is she taking it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Hard to say. She was half-cut when I arrived. She must have started when the sun couldn�
��t even see the yardarm.’

  Diane gave a small smile. ‘I haven’t seen her since high school. She and Stacey weren’t exactly close.’

  She paused for a moment. ‘I never would have dreamed Stacey would take her own life. It’s hard for me to believe. Stacey was moody, yes – mercurial you might call it. But never really down. Something must have got to her for this to happen.’ She was looking at him warily again.

  ‘Maybe she didn’t go out the window of her own accord.’

  Diane’s expression didn’t change but her eyes widened. ‘Do the police think that?’

  ‘Yes, they think she was pushed.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to ask you. Stacey told me you’d both been Party members for a while. The Party doesn’t like people to leave.’

  ‘Not much,’ she acknowledged. ‘But I only joined for the social life. Some social life,’ she added tartly.

  Had this woman really thought she’d find a boyfriend courtesy of the Comintern? Nessheim imagined a series of sad seductions conducted by earnest young men, who actually preferred just talking about Engels’s contribution to the theory of surplus value.

  He said, ‘Stacey didn’t stay in the Party either.’

  ‘No. But she left for a real reason. She followed Trotsky, not Stalin, and that was unacceptable. She grew to hate the Soviets almost as much as the Nazis. That’s why she went to the Fourth International.’

  ‘The fourth what?’

  ‘International. It was a world meeting of Trotsky’s followers in ’38, held in Paris. Stacey told me she attended the congress sessions during the day, and went to nightclubs at night.’ She laughed. ‘Typical Stacey. That’s where she met Tweedy. He wasn’t a Trotskyist, or a Communist for that matter. He was just rich and he fell for her. Like a lot of men,’ she said pointedly.

  ‘So he took her to LA?’ When Diane nodded, Nessheim added, ‘I thought she lost her faith in politics.’