by Radha Vatsal
“You called the compositor?”
“Yes, Mr. Hewitt.”
“All right, come back and see me at five. I’ll have read this by then.”
And then Kitty remembered—she had to meet the agents first thing tomorrow and so couldn’t stay late today. “I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. Hewitt.”
“Can’t what, Miss Weeks?”
“Stay past five.” She needed time to speak to her father.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have to be home for dinner this evening.”
The editor held up his hand. “Don’t give me any excuses. I have no interest in your domestic affairs. As far as I’m concerned, the choice is simple: either you give your work one hundred percent, or you don’t.”
Kitty remained silent.
“All right, send that girl”—he snapped his fingers—“Janie Williams to see me.”
“You mean Jeannie Williams, Mr. Hewitt?”
“That’s correct.”
“Will that be all, Mr. Hewitt?”
He nodded. “You’re free to leave.”
Kitty told herself she couldn’t expect anything else under the circumstances. Hopefully, he would feel better once he had read her interview.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rao drove Kitty home and let her out in front of the New Century. She half expected to find the Secret Service agents staring from across West End Avenue, but all she noticed was a crumpled ball of newsprint blowing down the scorching sidewalk like tumbleweed.
The doorman greeted her at the front of the apartment house. “There’s a letter for you, Miss Weeks.” He tipped his hat. “Two men dropped it off.” He reached into his pocket.
Kitty took the unmarked envelope and made her way past the display of cut gladioli in the vestibule. She didn’t open the letter while she rode upstairs in the elevator.
“You’re back at last,” Mr. Weeks called from his study when Kitty came in through the foyer. “You’ve been having some late evenings.”
She slipped the letter into her purse and handed her gloves and scarf to Grace. “I was only late yesterday, sir.”
“I’m sorry Maitland and I couldn’t join you for dinner.”
“That’s quite all right.” Kitty peeked into his room. “Do you mind if I freshen up? I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Of course.” He resumed reading his papers.
Once in the safety of her bedroom, Kitty removed the envelope from her purse and extracted a small sheet of notepaper.
“Riverside Park tomorrow, 8:30 a.m. sharp,” it said. It was signed “R. Booth. U.S. Treasury Dept.”
Kitty tore the note into tiny strips and tossed them into her wastebasket, then changed into an evening dress and joined Mr. Weeks in his study.
“Will you have a drink?” he asked. She nodded, and he poured her two fingers of black-currant cordial, which he diluted with a spray of fizzy water and a cube of ice.
He served himself a tumbler of bourbon, pulled back the curtains, and opened the windows. “Much better, don’t you think?” He loosened his collar and dropped into his favorite armchair, crossing one leg over the other. “I read in the papers that Mrs. Basshor’s secretary confessed to shooting Mr. Cole, and that the stable hand was set free. You must be pretty happy.”
“Ah.” Kitty didn’t want to get into that.
“What’s the matter?” He swirled the amber drink in his glass. “Aren’t you pleased? I thought you believed that that fellow, Lupone, was innocent.”
“I don’t think it matters what I believe.”
“Come now, don’t go feeling sorry for yourself. What has always baffled me,” he went on cheerily, “is why people with a lot of money put those with less of it in charge of paying their bills.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Wasn’t the secretary cheating Mrs. Basshor?”
“That’s what the papers said.” Kitty took a sip of her drink.
“It seems as though he would have gotten away with it since those Japanese were on their way back to Yokohama and had no idea what they were missing. It’s just his bad luck that Cole found him out.”
“And Mr. Cole’s bad luck too. He was killed for his efforts.”
Julian Weeks shrugged. “He shouldn’t have gone around meddling in other people’s business.”
“You think that’s a fair outcome?”
“Not exactly—”
“Hotchkiss told me he owed everything to Mrs. Basshor, but I didn’t think he was talking about money.”
“It’s always about money, my dear.” Mr. Weeks laughed.
Kitty gathered her courage. “May I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why don’t you tell me anything about your business?”
“Which business?” He seemed legitimately confused. “I have my hand in several pots.”
She tried to sound casual. “Well, for instance, why did you go to the Edelweiss Café on Friday? You told me you had to meet someone from out of town. Who was it?”
“Why the sudden curiosity, Capability? I had to meet the colleague of a colleague, that’s all.”
“Can you give me a name?”
“A name means nothing. You don’t know him. I hardly know him myself.”
“Why won’t you tell me anything about yourself?” The words came out much more forcefully than Kitty had intended. Her questions, she realized, were as much to satisfy her own curiosity as to provide the agents with answers.
“Whom I met at the café has nothing to do with you. But you’re right, I have kept you in the dark, so allow me to tell you this: my lawyers have a copy of my will and my life insurance policies, and when I’m gone, everything I have will be yours.”
Kitty could have screamed, but she forced herself to keep calm. “That’s not why I asked.”
He checked the time on his pocket watch. “You know, I should have dinner at the club this evening. Forgive me, Capability.” He put down his glass and stood, his expression maddeningly opaque. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“How can I be sure that you’re with the Secret Service?” Kitty said to the two agents. They stood near the entrance to Riverside Park with the wind rustling through the trees and the skies a bright summery blue.
“Our badges should be proof enough, Miss Weeks,” Soames replied, “but if you’d like additional assurance, you might telephone the Treasury Department’s office at the Customs House downtown.” He dropped his formal manner. “But I promise, we’re not lying to you.”
“What do you have for us, Miss Weeks?” Booth stepped forward.
Kitty had so little information to report that she didn’t think she could hurt anyone by answering. “My father told me nothing, but I did check in his daybook, and all it says for the day he went to the café is ‘H.S. + 1.’”
Kitty noticed Soames watching her. “Am I free to go now?”
“Not so fast.” Booth held up his hand. “We can guess who ‘H.S.’ is—Hugo Schweitzer, a German chemist with whom Mr. Weeks has been doing some business.”
Schweitzer. Kitty wondered why that name sounded familiar. “Well, I’m glad I could be of use.” She turned as though to leave, but Booth wasn’t finished.
“Have you heard Mr. Weeks mention the word ‘phenol,’” he said, “or seen it in any of his documents?”
Kitty stopped in her tracks. “Household cleaners don’t really concern my father, Agent Booth.”
“I’m not talking about phenyl, Miss Weeks, although you are correct that phenol is used in its manufacture. In fact, phenol is used to make a variety of domestic products, everything from phonograph records to disinfectants. It is also used in the manufacture of trinitrophenol, a powerful explosive that both sides are using to deadly eff
ect in the war.”
Soames stared at the ground.
“Maybe you’ve heard it called TNP or picric acid,” Booth said.
“I’ve not heard of it by any name, Mr. Booth,” Kitty replied angrily.
“Well,” he went on, “in the past, we imported all the phenol we needed from England at 10 cents a pound. Now, a year later, it costs $1.25 for the same amount, and even if you’re willing to pay, it’s almost impossible to get ahold of.”
Kitty’s chest started to feel tight.
“There aren’t many players in the phenol business these days.” Boats drifted along the Hudson behind Booth. “We know all the key names, where they buy their phenol and who they sell to. Only one newcomer remains a mystery. Mr. Julian Weeks. We don’t know where he gets it, and we’d like to know what he’s doing with it.”
“My father has no use for phenol,” Kitty said. But her denial was reflexive and not heartfelt.
“He’s been buying significant quantities of the stuff.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m afraid we can’t tell you.”
“Where does he store it?”
“Again, that’s confidential.”
“Well, if the price has gone up more than ten times over the past year, I’m sure it’s a good investment,” Kitty said.
“You can invest in gold or stocks, but you don’t invest in phenol, Miss Weeks. At least not at the present moment.”
“You think this has to do with whomever he met at the café.”
The agents didn’t reply.
“He’s not some anarchist!” she said. Although he could perhaps be a war profiteer. “Look.” She faced both men. “This is beyond me. You must speak directly to my father.”
Booth pulled a paper from his jacket. “Does this look familiar?” He handed it to Kitty.
The words danced in front of Kitty’s eyes. “This is my father’s passport application. Where did you get it?”
Booth flipped the paper over. “Do you recognize this signature?”
Kitty shook her head.
“It belongs to the man who Mr. Weeks chose to vouch for his identity. We know him well because he signs on behalf of Krauts trying to return home with falsified documents.”
“What are you saying, Agent Booth?” Kitty was furious.
“Julian Weeks has no birth certificate, no proof for what he’s written here. The Bureau of Citizenship will scrutinize his claim. And I don’t have to tell you, an unmarried daughter’s nationality follows that of her father’s.”
“All right. Enough, Booth.” Soames stepped in.
Kitty blinked away tears.
“Help us, and we’ll make all of this go away.” Booth folded the form and replaced it in his pocket.
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for Mr. Weeks’s lack of documentation,” Soames added.
“You mean, he’s not a German spy.” Kitty stood still. This was ridiculous. Just because her father didn’t have proof of his birth didn’t mean he was lying. He may have lived abroad most of his life, but that didn’t make him any less American than the two men standing in front of her. And just because they had badges and worked for the government didn’t mean that they could threaten her, a wealthy, well-brought-up young woman.
Then it hit her. Something else must be going on.
“Why me?” Kitty said finally. “I’ve been wondering why you need to go through me to get to him. Why you followed me to the Hamburg-American building when it’s my father you’re interested in.”
Both agents stiffened.
“But I’m beginning to suspect that you’re not interested in either one of us.”
Their faces went blank.
“The only way you could have known that I went to the Hamburg-American,” she continued, testing her theory as she spoke, “is if you’d been waiting for me outside the Sentinel all morning. But why would you do that? No, you knew I went downtown because you were there already. It’s not me or my father you’ve been following… It’s Dr. Albert.”
“That’s not true,” Booth said. But his voice and manner lacked conviction.
“You followed Dr. Albert and me to the docks,” Kitty continued. “Two out of the three times that you’ve seen either my father or me—at the Edelweiss Café, at Carnegie Hall, and at the docks—there has been another man present. Dr. Albert was expected at the concert, Dr. Albert was certainly at the docks, and now I think”—she worked it out as she went along—“that Dr. Albert was the ‘+ 1’ at the meeting with my father and the German chemist, Schweitzer.”
Soames tapped his foot. Booth exhaled deeply. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You’ve been suggesting that my father is selling phenol to the Germans,” Kitty said. “But since we’re neutral, that can’t be against the law. So what is against the law then—and what are you both trying so hard to hide by approaching me and not him?”
No reply.
“You don’t really think my father is doing something criminal or you wouldn’t be talking to me. After all, you can hardly expect me to incriminate him.” Kitty hoped to get a response—any response—so she could see the situation with more clarity.
“You’re right, Miss Weeks. Our approach has been unorthodox,” Soames replied. “These are unusual times. We’re faced with unusual threats,” he continued, ignoring Booth glaring at him. “And we’re responding as best we can. I will tell you this—if word got out that we were shadowing Dr. Albert—”
“Which we are not,” Booth butted in.
“—it would be considered a gross violation of protocol and cause an international incident,” Soames finished. “Dr. Albert is the official representative of a nation with which the United States has no quarrel. He’s a respected guest on our soil. And the Secret Service only acts in accordance with the president’s orders.”
“Fine,” Kitty said. “If you were indeed shadowing me and not Dr. Albert, tell me where I was before I arrived at the Hamburg-American on Monday.”
“We caught up with you late,” Booth said.
“Where?”
“At the Sentinel.”
“And how did you know you’d find me there?”
“We took a chance.”
“You don’t take a chance on anything. That’s codswallop.”
“Enough.” Booth looked furious. “Mr. Julian Weeks has made false claims to the federal government. He could face jail time if the matter was brought to the right individual’s attention. So you will do as we say, Miss Weeks.” He patted the form in his pocket.
“I work for a newspaper, and I will tell everyone about this.” Kitty’s boldness amazed her.
“And who would believe you? A Ladies’ Page reporter’s word against that of two agents from the Treasury Department? We’re in charge here,” Booth continued as a girl with a pink ribbon in her hair rolled a hoop past them. “You tell us what your father is doing with all that phenol, and we’ll do our best to help him with his troubles.”
Kitty watched the hoop spin as the girl maneuvered it with her stick. That was her life, Kitty thought—she would have to keep moving if she didn’t want to fall.
• • •
To distract herself, Kitty browsed through the papers on the drive to the Sentinel. But the headlines, which she once would have skimmed over, now took on a new significance:
WILSON SAYS HE WILL ACT PROMPTLY AFTER DECIDING REPLY TO GERMANY; AMERICAN COMMENT DISTURBS BERLIN.
Echoing the theme, a newsboy on the corner shouted: “President Plans to Return to Capital. Talks of New Warning to Germans!”
Kitty wanted to scream with frustration. Had the president ordered the Secret Service to spy on a German diplomat? Was the country, much as it might not want to, sliding into war, as Dr. Albert himself predicted? How was her father mixed up in i
t? Kitty thumped her fist against her thigh. And why was he lying on official documents? It wasn’t a crime to supply the Germans with phenol, but thinking of him as someone who profited from death and destruction was scarce consolation.
Never before had she been so glad to step inside the Sentinel. Never had she been more relieved to see that clock or the mosaic decorating the floor. At least here, for the most part, life remained predictable.
She rode up in the elevator, eager to resume her duties. She neared her desk and noticed that Jeannie’s place was empty; the typist was sitting in Kitty’s seat.
Jeannie didn’t hear Kitty approach over the din of the machines.
“I hope you approve,” Kitty said.
Startled, the other girl dropped her pencil. “Oh, Miss Weeks!” A crimson stain spread across Jeannie’s cheeks. “You took me by surprise. Mr. Hewitt said I should check the Anne Morgan interview.”
“And how does it stack up? Are there very many errors?” Kitty couldn’t control the bite in her tone, but Jeannie didn’t seem to notice.
“You write so clearly, Miss Weeks,” she said. “What a treat it must have been to visit the Colony Club and speak to Miss Morgan.”
“May I?” Kitty moved to hang her purse on the back of her chair.
“Mr. Hewitt said you should speak to him,” Jeannie replied.
Could Jeannie have moved because she, Kitty, was being promoted to Miss Busby’s position? That didn’t seem likely.
She knocked on the Weekend Supplement editor’s door.
“I suppose you’re wondering why Miss Williams is in your place,” he said when Kitty came in. “She’s a surprise, that girl.” The editor removed his glasses, fogged them with his breath, and gave them a quick polish with his handkerchief before returning them to his nose. “Much more competent than I expected. Stayed until eight last night without my having to ask and was back at seven thirty this morning.”
“Miss Williams is a hard worker,” Kitty agreed. She couldn’t compete with that kind of dedication, but still, she had other skills to offer.