The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01]

by David L. Robbins

  His rap was quickly answered. A stout woman filled the doorway. Lammeck recognized her: This was the maid he’d seen in the window at the Q Street house in Georgetown. This morning she wore not her domestic uniform but khakis and a cotton blouse.

  “Good morning. I’m Mikhal Lammeck. I hope I’m not calling too early, but is Mrs. Rutherfurd at home?”

  The woman smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Rutherfurd is out of town until the middle of next week.”

  Her accent was unmistakably French. She made no motion to close the door and cut Lammeck off.

  “Is she with President Roosevelt?”

  The big maid started. She blinked at Lammeck while he produced his letterhead from Mrs. Beach.

  Looking over the rumpled sheet, she asked, “Don’t you already know where she is?”

  “No, ma’am. Mrs. Rutherfurd’s movements are quite the well-kept secret, even inside the Secret Service. Is she in Warm Springs with the President?”

  “Come inside, please.”

  Lammeck followed her into the spacious foyer, to a seat in the living room that could double as a ballroom. She plopped opposite him on a plush sofa.

  “My name is Annette. I have been Mrs. Rutherfurd’s housemaid for many years. I do not reveal her whereabouts to strangers just for the asking. Regardless of a piece of paper. You understand.”

  “How many years have you worked for her?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  Lammeck nodded. “Of course. But you understand I have a job to do, protecting the President. There are circumstances, Annette, I can’t share with you.”

  She shifted on her cushion. “Circumstances?”

  “Dangers,” Lammeck said dramatically.

  Annette gasped and covered her mouth. “Is the madame in danger?”

  “I can’t say. I can’t protect her if I don’t know where she is. But, yes, if she is with the President, she could be exposed to... circumstances.”

  Annette shook her head, considering what to do. Lammeck waited.

  “Madame Rutherford left two days ago. She is in Georgia, with the President. I stayed behind. I became ill and could not go.”

  “Ill? Are you better now?”

  Annette nodded vigorously, now quite willing to talk to Lammeck.

  “Yes. The night before they left, I fell very sick. Then by the next afternoon, I was tired but fine. The doctor had no explanation.”

  A fuse sparked in Lammeck’s gut. “The night before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it sudden?”

  “Yes. I went to bed, and just like that,” she snapped her fingers, “I could not breathe and my heart hurt. I vomited many times.”

  “You said ‘they’ left for Georgia. Who are ‘they’?”

  “Why, Madame Shoumatoff, the painter. Mr. Robbins, her photographer. Mrs. Rutherfurd, of course. And Desiree, the other maid.” Annette spoke as if she disapproved that Lammeck did not know all these things in advance.

  Lammeck scooted forward on his seat. “Tell me about Desiree,” he urged. “How long has she worked for Mrs. Rutherfurd?”

  Lammeck feared the answer he got.

  “Three weeks.”

  In an instant Lammeck recalled the poison in his veins. He cursed under his breath.

  “What is it? What?”

  “Where did Mrs. Rutherfurd meet Desiree? Please don’t tell me it was in Washington.”

  Annette recoiled, falling back into the sofa. She covered her lips again. Lammeck took this as her answer.

  “Is she tall? Athletic? Is she blue-eyed with a brown complexion? Annette, is she?”

  “Mon Dieu ...”

  “Where’s a phone?” He shot to his feet. Annette pointed through one of the doorways. Lammeck bolted out of the great room through a narrow hall, entering a library. On a large polished desk sat a phone. He dove for the receiver and plunged a finger into the dial.

  Before he could spin the 0 for the local operator, he stopped, his finger still in the slot. He froze, staring at the walls of books.

  “She won’t believe me.”

  Lammeck ran through the conversation he would have with Mrs. Beach: Doctor, I told you not to leave Washington. I told you specifically not to bother Mrs. Rutherfurd. The President is not dead, Dr. Lammeck, despite the fact that this Desiree has been with him for two and a half days already. No, I will not call Chief Reilly, the chief is on the scene and in control, as always. Stay where you are, Doctor. I will be sending a state police escort to take you into custody.

  Not a conversation at all, Lammeck determined, but a scolding. Then he’d get arrested. There’d be no advantage to calling Mrs. Beach, except that he wouldn’t have to drive himself back to D.C.

  Lammeck returned the receiver to the cradle. What if the Mrs. Beach in his head was right? Roosevelt wasn’t dead; if that was the case, the whole world would know. What if she did call Chief Reilly in Georgia, and Desiree turned out to be just some coffee-colored, athletic, blue-eyed maid from Washington? The Secret Service would look like clowns in front of the President and his dear friend, the untouchable Mrs. Winthrop Rutherfurd. Reilly and Mrs. Beach’s vengeance on Lammeck would know no bounds.

  There was one answer, and Lammeck hated it. He would have to drive to Warm Springs right now. If Desiree the maid turned out to be Judith, and he wasn’t too late, he’d confront her and maybe, just maybe stop her before she killed him and the President. If she wasn’t Judith, Lammeck would be in just medium-depth shit.

  He called a thank-you to Annette before sprinting out the door. He spun tires in the gravel leaving the estate, with Annette hailing from the doorway for him to come back and explain. Leaving Aiken, Lammeck ignored the thirty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit.

  * * * *

  April 12

  The Little White House

  Warm Springs, Georgia

  JUDITH HAD GUESSED RIGHT: Madame Shoumatoff was a snorer. She heard the woman sawing as she tiptoed up the guesthouse steps to wake the ladies for breakfast.

  Shoumatoff woke quickly, while Mrs. Rutherfurd languished, half asleep. Judith laid out the Russian’s morning garb and poured fresh water into the porcelain basin. Mrs. Rutherfurd roused only after Shoumatoff was out the door. She seemed reluctant to begin the day.

  A tension that had cropped up yesterday hung over Mrs. Rutherfurd’s morning toilette. She complained of the rivalry for the President’s attention that had risen between her and one of the cousins, Daisy Suckley. That was why she hadn’t gone on the picnic in the afternoon. And last night at dinner, Bonner had served pancakes and soup, an odd combination. The cook, in the manner of all good cooks, believed a man could be made well by serving him his favorite dishes. Mrs. Rutherfurd praised the meal when she saw the President’s pleasure; Cousin Daisy sniped at pancakes for dinner and drew a mild rebuke from Roosevelt, which only sharpened her attitude toward Mrs. Rutherfurd. Secretary Morgenthau had proved to be a dour presence, only wanting to talk about politics and dismantling Germany after the war. Roosevelt cut him off, preferring to spend the evening recalling their boyhoods in the Hudson Valley, the frozen river and snowy hills. Roosevelt turned melancholy when he spoke about Pa Watson, Missy LeHand, his mother, and many of his departed friends. Morgenthau lost interest and left early. The mood of the night was ruined. Mrs. Rutherfurd did not sleep well beside the snores of Shoumatoff.

  Listening with closed mouth and busy hands to the woman’s mundane plaints, Judith prepared her for breakfast. By necessity, many times in Judith’s career she’d gotten close to those who’d stood near her intended targets. In each instance, the rich, the powerful, beautiful, or famous, griped and obsessed over the same ridiculous things every person was vexed by. They were as subject as paupers or simpletons to pettiness and jealousies, little squabbles for private power, personal schemes, and slights that kept them awake at night. No hand was so great in the world that it could rewrite its human heart. Combing the woman’s hair, Judith let Mrs. Ruthe
rfurd prattle on. She thought, not for the first time, how her work had ruined her ability to admire anyone ever again.

  Once Mrs. Rutherfurd was out the door, Judith took a walk in the woods, east toward State Route 194 leading to the town of Warm Springs. She carried a handbag and made a point of straying past the Secret Service sentry boxes, waving at the agents sunning themselves on stools, and at the Marines patrolling the fence line. She let them all see her in her maid’s uniform. In addition to dodging Reilly, she also avoided standing in the wings inside the President’s tiny cottage, watching the pair of cousins wriggle like rude piglets for Roosevelt’s glance, or bearing Mrs. Rutherfurd’s pliant manner, Shoumatoff’s artistic airs, and the President’s frail philandering. Judith strolled alone, enjoying the blooming Georgia woodland. She had in one pocket her passports and the rest of her American money. Inside the handbag were a linen skirt and blouse, and flat leather shoes. Everything else, her poisons kit included, she would leave behind. This would make no difference; by the time they looked, they would already know what she had done. In her other pocket rode the vial of cyanide powder.

  Judith stayed away until late morning, covering the eastern grounds, showing herself to every guardian of the President’s retreat and staff member in her path. She left the handbag under a great oak that would be easy to locate again. When the sun had risen high and she walked on her own shadow, she turned around.

  * * * *

  Route 22

  outside Sparta, Georgia

  IN HIS MIRROR, LAMMECK watched the state trooper’s bantam saunter. The skinny cop wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, and the belt of his sidearm slanted across his hips like a gunslinger’s. He stopped at the rear of the car to hook his thumbs in his belt and consider the Washington, D.C., license plate. When he was done, he moseyed to Lammeck’s open window, staring through dark lenses. Another car went past, swirling dust and pollen behind it.

  “Mister.”

  “Officer.”

  The trooper peeled off his sunglasses. He narrowed his eyes.

  “Can I see your driver’s license, please?”

  Lammeck had out his wallet, and the letter from the Secret Service.

  “Officer, I know I was speeding.”

  The man reached for the license. “That makes two of us.”

  “I’m with the Secret Service. I have a really important message for President Roosevelt. He’s at Warm Springs. Here, take a look.”

  The trooper ignored the offered letter. He looked up from Lammeck’s driver’s license.

  “Mikhal Lammeck?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is a Rhode Island license. Says here it expired two years ago.”

  “I’ve been out of the country.”

  “Doing what, sir? You ain’t in uniform.”

  “Training.”

  The officer tilted his head, awaiting a further explanation. Lammeck paused, pretending reluctance. Then he grimaced, as if letting a secret slip under duress. “Training spies.”

  The trooper didn’t bite. “Mmm-hmm.”

  Lammeck held out Mrs. Beach’s letter. The trooper took it this time. Lammeck watched the man’s eyes work down the page.

  “I don’t think the federal government has given you permission to speed in my county, Mr. Lammeck. Nor to drive with an expired license.”

  Lammeck accepted the return of the letter. The trooper hung his thumbs on his belt again. He pursed his lips.

  “Spies, huh? Like behind enemy lines and such? You some kind of expert?”

  “Yes, sir. You could say that.”

  “You wasn’t making your way across Hancock County like no spy. You was doing fifty. Where you comin’ from?”

  “Aiken.”

  “And you’re headin’ all the way down to Warm Springs. That’s about a hundred eighty miles. You plan on speeding the whole way?”

  “It’s crucial I get to President Roosevelt quickly.”

  “Mmm-hmm. And I suppose I’m holdin’ you up?”

  “That’s a trick question, Officer.”

  The trooper grinned. “You know, if it was Tom Dewey you was in such a fit to go see instead of ol’ FDR, I wouldn’t say what I’m about to.”

  “And that is?”

  “That is, Mr. Lammeck, that my mother and father got bread on the table, that my big brother’s fighting in Germany in a war we’re about to win, that I got this here job, and that the Baldwin County line’s another ten miles up the road. How ‘bout I give you an escort?”

  “Thank you, Officer. And thank you from President Roosevelt.”

  The trooper returned his shades over his eyes.

  “You hang on,” he said before pivoting for his vehicle. “We’re gonna do seventy. After that, you’re someone else’s problem.”

  * * * *

  The Little White House

  Warm Springs, Georgia

  THE PRESIDENT SAT IN the glow of the open French doors. Light brightened his cheek and forehead, and highlighted the maps of veins in the backs of his hands. He wore a red necktie instead of his preferred bow tie, and a dark gray suit and vest beneath a navy cloak. A breeze ghosted from the porch to lift his wispy hair.

  Madame Shoumatoff rose from her easel, talking incessantly in accented English. The President is to hold his head a little more to the right, he must please lift his chin a bit. She took from her pocket a tailor’s tape and measured Roosevelt’s nose. Cousin Polly Delano entered the room with a spray of wildflowers and set about arranging them at the dining table. On the sofa, Cousin Daisy Suckley knit. Mrs. Rutherfurd sat beside her, hands in her lap, with the quiet face of a child told to sit patiently.

  Judith stayed out of the bright room, hanging back from the doorsill unnoticed. Little Fala snuck into the foyer to sniff at her ankles, then trotted off to curl at Cousin Daisy’s feet. Shoumatoff returned to the easel and took up her brush. Roosevelt squirmed in his chair, tiring but trying to please the painter because this portrait was for Mrs. Rutherfurd’s daughter. Shoumatoff added a few water-color strokes to the canvas, and made more conversation to keep the President focused in his pose. She asked if he had liked Stalin when they’d met at Yalta. Yes, the President said, but he believed that Stalin had poisoned his wife. Only Shoumatoff did not laugh.

  Roosevelt asked his cousins how the day’s plans were shaping up. That afternoon he was scheduled to attend a barbecue in town; in the evening, a minstrel show. Daisy replied she’d heard everything was on schedule. The weather would stay fine. Roosevelt assured his ladies they would enjoy both events. Shoumatoff continued to dab her easel, silent now that the President had taken hold of the conversation. Out of the blue, he mentioned he might resign the presidency to take the job of heading the new United Nations, which was to hold its first meeting in San Francisco before the month was out. No one reacted, expecting him to laugh the statement off. He did not. Judith looked to Mrs. Rutherfurd. She seemed far off, mesmerized in the noon light by her admiration of the man. He’s not going to retire, Judith thought. He says things to please people. He said that to please Mrs. Rutherfurd. If Judith had believed him, she might have walked away. Her job was to kill more to Franklin Roosevelt, President of the United States, not head of the United Nations.

  Hassett, Roosevelt’s secretary, entered with the day’s mail pouch. He encountered Judith in the foyer. He smiled, likely assuming that Judith waited in the wings until she was required.

  ”How’s the painting going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  He moved toward the room, saying, “I’m sure no one will mind if you take a peek.”

  Hassett’s arrival called a halt to the posing session. When eyes turned to him, Judith was noticed. She moved toward Mrs. Rutherfurd.

  ”Ma’am.”

  ”Desiree, where have you been?”

  ”Out walking, ma’am. It’s such a fine day. I’m sorry, was I needed?”

  ”No, but please let me know when you are going to be out of earshot.�
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  ”Yes, ma’am.”

  ”We’ll be serving lunch soon. You should ask Cook if you can be of help.”

  ”May I look at the painting, first?”

  Mrs. Rutherfurd caught Shoumatoff’s eye, then gestured to ask for permission. The artist nodded and waggled fingers for Judith to come. Judith moved along the wall, watching Hassett lift a table in front of the President’s chair. Roosevelt screwed a cigarette into a holder, allowed Hassett to light it, and set about the mail. Judith slipped behind Shoumatoff. The painter took no notice. She continued to work the canvas, filling in the President’s red tie.