I boarded a streetcar headed north, giving Union Station a wide berth. If the Bureau thought Barston was going to take a powder, they’d have men watching the entrances. I had no particular place in mind, just wanted to get out of downtown. At Rhode Island Avenue I hopped off and entered the nearest Peoples Drug Store, went straight to the telephone booths, dropped a nickel for Embassy 3518, and waited to hear “Irving Hotel.”
I said, “I’m looking for John Gostling.”
“He ain’t here. Leave your number.”
“Dupont four-one-one-eight.”
He hung up, I lit up, cracking the door to let the smoke out. I’d just crushed the butt when the telephone rang. I pushed the door shut and picked up.
I asked, “Should I take the number forty-eight bus from Hoboken?”
“No, you want the number fifty-three from Jersey City,” Terrance answered.
Only the two of us knew this question and answer—we’d come up with them before I went under.
“Can you talk?” I asked.
“Are you at the bus station now?” No.
“We got problems, we gotta meet pronto.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess.” Okay, where?
“Meet me at McMillan Park, the benches in front of the reservoir in an hour. Don’t tell Paslett, leave him behind.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you at the station.” See you there—alone.
I hung up and lit another cigarette, exhaling with relief as I left the drugstore. The smell of fried onions and sizzling hamburger wafted from the diner next to the drug store. I was as hungry as a junkyard dog, but I didn’t have time to eat.
TWO MEN SITTING ON A PARK BENCH WOULD DRAW ATTENTION, SO WE got in the car—the beat-up Chrysler we always got stuck with—and went for a ride, Terrance driving. He pointed us southwest on Rhode Island.
“Nice haircut,” my partner said, pushing the dashboard lighter in.
“Thanks. Was Barston’s idea.”
“What’s our problem?”
“The Bureau. Two’a their boys hauled me in for a chit-chat this afternoon.”
He looked over sharply. “They were following you?”
“No—they were watching the guy I was making a delivery to, followed me out.”
Terrance didn’t say anything. The lighter popped, he pressed the glowing coil to his cigarette. I lit up, too. No easy way for him to ask Did your cover hold?, so he was waiting for me to tell him, in whatever way I decided.
“This delivery,” I went on, “guy’s name is Kudlower but he’s going by Kovacevic. Strictly amateur. Used his own flat, taped the alias to his mail slot. Had an envelope for me to take back to my boss, Himmel.”
“Aw, shit.”
“Don’t worry, I memorized the note inside—you can write it down to take back to Paslett.”
“But now the Bureau’s got a piece of our evidence.”
“S’alright, they got no idea what they got. But now they know how H & H is collecting, and the only reason I can be here is because they put a pup on my tail after they cut me loose and I shook him easy. By the time they find me next, pros’ll be on the beat.”
A nod, an exhale of smoke. This was our last meeting while I was under, we had to make it count. I took a long drag of my cigarette.
Terrance asked, “So what angles are they working, the Bureau?”
“All right. They’ve been on to H & H for a while, we know that—hell, if the old man hadn’t gotten ahold of the Bureau’s report on clipping services, we never would’a found ’em. But if John Edgar thought Himmel was using his delivery man as a courier, I would’a been followed from day one.”
“Instead they were watching Silva.”
“But not Nagel, that scientist I got the first envelope from. So they must not know about him.”
“So why Silva? And how’d they find this Kudlower?”
“Silva, I don’t know yet. Kudlower, I know how. After I shook my tail, I went to see a friend a’mine on the Hill.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Ellis, you’re s’posed to be in Iceland!”
“Don’t worry, she’s not gonna tell anyone she saw me.”
“A woman who won’t talk? You gotta be—”
“I asked her about the Senate committee that investigates war fraud,” I cut in, “the one Truman used to chair. This Kudlower, he’s got a mile-high stack’a appropriation hearing reports and who knows what else in his flat, but they’re not G.P.O.-issue, he’s got ’em in these fancy black leatherette covers. Remember seeing those?”
He nodded. We’d both been interviewed by that lawyer from the committee during his visit to the Navy Building.
“So what I found out is, Kudlower’s one of the committee’s two field investigators. And the other guy, name of Flanagan, guess who he used to work for?”
“Sonofabitch—the Bureau.”
“Bingo. I don’t know if this Flanagan got put on the committee’s staff because they already suspected Kudlower or he just got suspicious the more he worked with him, but however it happened, the Bureau’s on to Kudlower. And Kudlower’s dirty—he’s telling the Reds how much money is being spent at that base in New Mexico.”
Terrance whistled lowly. “How much?”
“Over thirty mil, if I figured right. Pull over, I’ll give you what I got.”
Terrance steered to the curb. We were on Sixteenth, alongside Meridian Hill Park. Its steep rock walls loomed over the sidewalk, the street lamps pooled dim yellow light on the uneven slabs. No one around—it was a long, steep trek for several blocks here, no shops or diners, nothing. My partner flicked on the dome light and pulled out his notebook.
“Okay, first thing in the envelope was a brief note.” I recited the message verbatim, Terrance copied every word.
“Any unusual markings?” he asked.
“Nope. Second thing was a postcard.” I described it, going slowly, closing my eyes, picturing the postcard in my mind, just as I’d been taught at the Funhouse. Your memory’s better than you think, the training officer had drilled into us. Terrance scribbled furiously, peppering me with questions after I finished. The denomination of the stamp, its image, the cancellation marking—was it straight or off-center? A good question, that—the P.O. rarely rolled a neat postmark across a piece of mail. Thanks to Terrance, I remembered the cancellation was straight.
“Dollars to donuts, it’s a forgery,” he commented.
“Oh yeah. Okay, so here’s what it said.” Again, I recited the postcard’s text, noting the punctuation and describing the handwriting style, how the writer looped his l’s and crossed his t’s. My partner hit me with more questions. Any hesitation marks, did the card look handled or new?
“Anything else you can remember?” he finished.
I closed my eyes one more time, turned the card over and over in my mind—nothing new. I shook my head and lit a much-needed cigarette. I resisted checking my watch. It takes as long as it takes, I told myself. If this briefing went past eight, I just had to hope Liv was patient. If she showed.
“All right,” Terrance said, starting the car and easing back into traffic. “Tell me how you came up with thirty mil outta this.”
I told him how the name of the ranch, the Five-Five, had struck me as odd, and how Himmel had wanted to know how many dollar signs the writer had used.
“If you use those dollar signs as zeros after five to the fifth power,” I continued, “you get thirty-one million, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Dubious.
“You don’t think so?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Ellis—these kinda ciphers ain’t exactly our cup’a tea.”
True enough.
“M’sure Paslett’s got some pencil-and-slide-rule boys he can put on it.”
“Sure, sure. So when you told Himmel about the card, how much detail did you give him?”
“Christ, Terrance, as little as I could! But I had to give him something, so it didn’t look like I was h
olding back.” Terrance had only worked a cover a couple of times, and years ago at that—he’d forgotten about all the challenges, about how you were constantly balancing the investigation against your false front.
“Okay, okay, don’t get hot, m’just asking is all.”
Last thing I needed was a go-around with my partner, so I asked, “What’d you and the commander dig up on that egghead scientist?”
Terrance nodded, taking a long draw on his cigarette before briefing me. Taylor Nagel was forty-six, born in Chillicothe, Ohio. A.E.F. during the Great War, Ohio State University afterward, 1924 B.S., electrical engineering. First job, Precision Instruments of Newark, New Jersey. Came to D.C. in 1930 to the National Bureau of Standards. An expert on the measurement of radium, co-wrote the 1931 X-ray safety code. Now hush-hush work on radiological measurement and standards. Wife Claire, three kids, house in Friendship Heights, in Northwest D.C.
“Has he been to New Mexico?” I asked.
“Not that we could tell.”
“What about that special passenger the Bermuda Special brought back?”
“Paslett did a little more digging, called in some favors. This has gotta stay way under your hat, Ellis, this is—”
“Terrance, c’mon!”
“Yeah, sorry—being around the old man all the time, it’s got me spooked, you know? Every time he talks to me, he swears me to secrecy, like I just got outta training.”
“So whatta we know?”
He exhaled audibly. “Our friend is Gerhard Trechten, some German physicist. Nazi party member, college professor, internationally known, all’a that. According to O.S.S., Trechten was last spotted working outta an underground lab or factory the Krauts got in the Harz Mountains.”
“What’s so special about this Trechten?” I didn’t ask how Paslett got an O.S.S. report—I didn’t want to know.
“Ever hear of ‘uranium’?”
I shook my head.
“Me neither. But when Paslett found out this Trechten’s some sorta specialist in uranium, I tell you, Ellis, he looked like a ghost: the blood just drained right outta his face.”
“Is it a weapon, uranium, why is—”
“I got no idea, Ellis—I don’t know uranium from Uranus. All I can tell you is that Paslett is shitting bricks thinking about how Skerrill was aboard the Bermuda Special with this Trechten.”
“Did he go to New Mexico for sure, this Trechten?”
Terrance nodded grimly. “Yeah, we confirmed that. But what he’s doing, what’s going on down there, beats me. And if Paslett knows anything more, he ain’t saying.”
I thought for a moment. Say Skerrill got the dope on Trechten, maybe even talked to him aboard the ship. He tells all to Himmel, who rousts his spies, orders them to give him everything they got on what’s happening down in New Mexico. So Nagel delivers, Kudlower delivers—Skerrill continues to give what he can until he gets killed. Who else did Himmel have on the string, who else was going to make a delivery to him? And would I be the one to courier it?
“You’ll check out this Kudlower next?” I asked.
He nodded. “What’re you gonna do?”
“I think Himmel’s still got some deliveries to collect, so I gotta make sure I’m the one who collects.”
“What’re you gonna do about the Bureau?”
“I’ll have to shake ’em. Himmel, he knows I got a tail now, he told me to step light—I take that as a sign he’s counting on me to figure it out.”
“Seems to trust you an awful lot.”
Something off in his tone? And why that phrase? An awful lot. I shook off the suspicion. Staying under like this, longer than I’d ever done cover work before, was giving me the jitters.
“Yeah, this Barston cover’s working great,” I said.
“So what about Skerrill—got any leads on who killed him?”
“Maybe.” I told him about my toss of Silva’s flat, about the letter I’d found hinting at two-timing. And I finally told him what Miriam had told me the night I took her to the Italian restaurant: Silva and Skerrill had been lovers.
“So the jealous hubbie of Skerrill’s other gal knocks him off? I don’t know. . . .” His voice trailed off.
“If Skerrill picked the wrong broad and she’s got a hubbie with a temper, it’s a possibility. I bet if we ask Durkin”—the city detective sergeant we’d taken the case from—“he’d tell us half the homicides in D.C. come outta marriages gone bad.”
“Do you know who Skerrill had on the side?” Still doubtful.
“No,” I admitted. “But the gal I’m banging, H & H’s receptionist, she’s a gossip. Called in sick today, but I’ll pump her tomorrow.”
“I guess Himmel’s got no reason to bump off Skerrill, not with what he was giving him.”
“Right! That’s what’s been nagging me ever since I went under—why would any’a the Reds wanna kill Skerrill? He was their goddamned golden goose.”
“Well, here’s hoping that roundheel knows something.” Translation: you don’t have a lot of time to wrap this up, partner, not with the Bureau breathing down your neck.
“She hasn’t let me down yet.”
Terrance saw me glance at my watch. Ten after eight.
“Where you want me to drop you off?” he asked. We were on Connecticut now, headed north.
“Right here’s good.”
“What’re you gonna do the rest of the night?”
“First thing, eat a horse—I’m starving. Then I’m gonna get some rack time. Haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in I don’t know how long.”
He nodded absently, watching traffic in the passenger’s side mirror, pulled to the curb. “Need anything?”
“Yeah, money—d’you bring any?”
“Yeah.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and handed over a rubber-banded roll.
“How much?”
“Two yards.” A crooked grin. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
“Why not? S’my last night without a chaperone.”
A brief laugh. Then a straight-on look at me. “Watch your back, partner.”
“Always.” I got out, shut the door, leaned in through the open window. “I get any more deliveries, I’ll call the Irving Park line, tell you what I can. Same if I come up with who did Skerrill.”
“Yep.” And with that, he merged and continued north on Connecticut.
As soon as the Chrysler’s taillights were out of sight, I stuck out my arm and flagged a hack. I handed a fiver over the bench before I’d even shut the door.
“Lotus Club, pronto.”
“You got it, pal.”
CHAPTER 28
THE HACK PULLED UP HARD IN FRONT OF THE LOTUS—THE RIDE HAD only taken five minutes. Quarter after eight, either Liv was here or she wasn’t. I paid the cover, hustled past the fountain with the fake flower, surveyed the ballroom. Liv wasn’t one to sit at a bar with a drink, she’d charm her way into a tucked-away spot and an extra candle and open a book and lose herself in the world of those pages, oblivious to the sharks eying her, circling close to ask—
“Got time for a supplicant?” I asked, trying to hide my excitement at finding her. Sitting in a clamshell booth by herself, a ginger ale and book her only company.
“I don’t know, what’s he supplicating?” Looking over the top of Ulysses.
“Not the usual.”
“What’s the usual?”
“Forgiveness.”
“Instead?”
“The future.”
“Because . . . ?”
“Because ‘how will you be’ is more important than how you’ve been. Or, in this supplicant’s case, what he did.” How will you be? Liv’s quirky greeting. Being Ted Barston was giving me a new appreciation for it.
She set the book down. First time Ulysses had crossed the Lotus’s threshold, for sure. “Some people might say that’s, I don’t know—”
“A cop-out?”
Tick of her head.
�
��But we’re not some people, are we, Liv?”
A long laugh.
I relaxed a little, eased into the booth. “I had a reason for what happened, you know, that night, but it’s no excuse—”
“El, you don’t have to explain,” Liv interrupted gently. “The future, right?”
I nodded, relieved. Forgetting the past—hell, forgetting just the day up to that moment sounded like an awful good idea. In the last twenty-four hours, I’d gotten drunk twice, beaten a man within an inch of his life, abandoned a girl who thought I was her guy, got roughed up by the F.B.I., and screwed a whore. But then, I hadn’t done any of those deeds—Ted Barston had.
A girl in a brocaded tunic glided up, I ordered a Tom Collins, another ginger. I lit up, grinning like an idiot schoolboy at Liv.
Who asked, “What happened to your hair?” Smiling back.
“Lost a bet.”
“Makes you look different.”
“Better?”
“No.”
“It’ll grow back.”
“So, El.”
“Liv.”
“How will you be?”
“Happy. Warm. Content.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Not how, where.”
“So where’s happiness, warmth, and contentment?”
“Far from here,” I said.
“Far from here’s not a where.”
“Way west, how’s that?”
“How way west?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“How far you want to go, Liv.”
Our drinks came. She took a sip, her gaze on me. Always so expressive, her eyes, now inscrutable. “Not ‘go,’ El,” she finally said.
“No?”
“Plunge.”
“It’s a deep ocean, the Pacific,” I said. Voice even, steady, my eyes fixed on hers.
“You sure, El?”
“Haven’t dived to the bottom, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Faintest of smiles, sip of her soda. “It’s not a dive, either, El. A plunge.”
“Plunge, got it.”
She watched me closely for a moment. Then parted her lips to speak. Do you? I thought she was about to ask. Instead:
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