Face of the Enemy

by Beverle Graves Myers

  Then she stood and watched the darkness.

  Chapter Seven

  “An art show?” Cabby’s just-one-of-the-guys grin evaporated. “We’re at war, and you want me to write up an art show!” Her protest could be heard in every corner of the city room, even over the clattering typewriters and the insistent bells of the wire service tickers. The usual morning commotion had doubled. No, tripled.

  Len Halper, the day-side editor, gave a short nod and dug in the mess of papers on his desk. Rearranging a sheaf of notes, he scanned the top page. “Take it down, Ward. Shelton Gallery of Contemporary Art, 24 West Fifty-seventh.”

  Cabby reluctantly put pencil to paper. An art show!

  Buoyed by the pervading sense of resolve, Cabby had allowed herself to hope for a substantial reporting assignment. Until yesterday, the war had been Over There, bombs falling on strangers. Pearl Harbor had made things personal in a hurry. New Yorkers, even the fiercest isolationists, were mad, fighting mad. That morning on her way to work, she’d seen tight-lipped determination everywhere: on the packed BMT from Brooklyn, on the bustling sidewalks of Times Square, in the smoky elevator up to the third-floor newsroom of the Times building. The line of sober-faced young men at the Army recruiting center stretched around the block.

  Cabby had just spent a long hour fuming as her male colleagues were sent to cover the real mobilization news. Bud Smallwood was headed up to Kensico Dam; word was the city’s water supply was threatened with sabotage. Bridge security was high on the defense list—the George Washington, Manhattan, and Brooklyn bridges particularly—and Fred Olson was sent to get the scoop. And that big power plant in Jersey? Joe Thatcher got that one.

  Her assignment? A dainty little art show. Swell.

  She narrowed her eyes at Halper and toughened her tone. “I wouldn’t know a Picasso from a pisspot. What’s wrong with James LaSalle? He’s the art critic.”

  Len Halper had the stature of a college basketball star gone to seed and the face of a mournful basset hound. He shot Cabby a look from his stooped six-foot-two-inches. “You should watch your mouth, Ward—it’s gonna land you in the homemaking section one of these days. Anyway, this is no highbrow art review. There’s a real story brewing up there. Ever heard of Masako Fumi?”

  The name rang a bell, but which bell? Masako Fumi. Was that the sukiyaki restaurant all the guys raved about? No, that didn’t sound right. Cabby shook her head.

  “Me neither. She’s a Jap painter, just had a big show that LaSalle reviewed last week—one of those modern artists who paints like my five-year-old, all squiggles and splotches.”

  Cabby struggled to recall where she’d heard the name.

  Halper went on, grinding out his cigarette stub in a filthy metal ashtray. “Her husband’s an American named Oakley. Teaches at Columbia.”

  Oh, that bell. Sure. Fumi must be the artist married to Louise’s current patient. She’d been talking about the couple for several days—so sophisticated, so well-traveled, the perfect match. Most of it had gone in one ear and out the other. But now, aha! Cabby had an inside source on the story. “What happened?”

  “Vandalism.”

  “Vandalism? What kinda story is that?”

  “Just wait. Bright and early this morning, someone tossed a brick through a window of the gallery exhibiting Fumi’s stuff. Apparently, there’s a certain art-happy contingent that doesn’t mind dropping a lot of loot on Jap squiggles. Anyhow, some bystanders got involved. Things got ugly. Well…ugly for West Fifty-seventh Street.” Halper rolled his eyes, dragging the bags under them along for the ride.

  “What makes it a story is that this Fumi was picked up last night with a bunch of other Japs suspected of being threats to the war effort. They ferried ’em all out to Ellis Island.”

  Cabby’s pencil froze. Last night? Louise had been working last night—she’d left the boarding house around seven. She must’ve been right there when the Feds showed up. Great!

  “So I want you to get up to Fifty-seventh Street. Interview the gallery owner. Find out what’s so hot about this Jap artist and what’s going to happen to her paintings now that her pals have smashed our Navy to smithereens.”

  Cabby slapped her notebook shut and stuck the pencil behind her right ear. “And,” she added, “find out just exactly what makes her a threat to national security.”

  “You got two points with that one, Ward.” Halper mimed an overhand shot. “Now get going.”

  Chapter Eight

  Louise contemplated the wreck of the Oakleys’ living room. The extent of the damage was revealed by a dim morning light that penetrated gray clouds scudding across the Hudson: paintings missing from the walls, sofa cushions thrown helter-skelter, the tubes of the big Magnavox radio strewn across the floor. While her patient was asleep, she should at least shelve the books, gather up the papers. She took a sip of the fresh coffee she’d made after Dr. Wright’s whirlwind visit—thank god he’d pronounced the professor “better than he had a right to be” after the night’s catastrophic events. But she couldn’t summon the energy to get to work. Instead, she collapsed into an upholstered armchair, lowered her nose to her cup, and let the aroma carry her back to what seemed like saner times.

  The mugs of sweet, milky coffee at Granny Hunter’s kitchen table on Christmas Eve, when all the cousins were allowed a treat while their parents decorated the tree.

  Her first sip of espresso on a date with a slick medical student. How he’d laughed when she sputtered the bitter brew all over the table.

  The unending pots of black coffee that had fueled the probies’ midnight cram sessions at Crandall House where the nursing students lived. And the exchange of heartfelt hopes and dreams. Where were all those girls now? How many of them would be enlisting in the nursing corps?

  How many of them had had their hearts broken?

  The telephone bell jerked Louise back to the appalling present. What now? She sped down the hallway to quiet the jangling phone, dreading whoever might be on the other end. What was the world coming to—when a simple object like a candlestick phone became a source of trepidation? Then, as the soles of her nursing shoes caught on a throw rug, she had a more hopeful thought: was it possible those hard-faced men had allowed Mrs. Oakley a call?

  She stumbled the remaining steps and snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Excuse me, Madam. Dedham, here.”

  The doorman’s excruciatingly correct tones. From her first day on the Oakley case, Louise had suspected him of angling for a butler’s job with one of the buildings’ wealthier inhabitants. “Yes?”

  “I have a Professor Lillian Bridges to see Professor and Mrs. Oakley.”

  Bridges? She knew that name. Louise hesitated. Then, “It’s not a convenient time for callers.”

  A muffled conversation came through the receiver.

  Dedham’s voice returned, tones huffy. “The lady remains quite insistent.”

  Lillian Bridges was her patient’s colleague at Columbia, and she most likely wanted to see first-hand how Professor Oakley was doing. Louise sighed. “Send her up.”

  She opened the door to admit a tall woman who looked nothing like Louise had expected. No old maid school-teacher, this, with sensible shoes and gray hair in a bun. Miss Bridges was an older woman—maybe as old as forty-five—and quite attractive, her dark hair cut in a stylish bob accentuating the silver streaks at her temples. She wore a well-cut wool coat the gray of this morning’s blustery skies and a red hat that tilted over one eye. Entering the foyer, she nodded at Louise and strolled through into the living room. Then she stood there, incredulous, assessing the disorder. “The FBI…,” she said, turning to Louise, “…they’ve come for Masako, haven’t they?”

  “As you can see. They took Mrs. Oakley away in the middle of the night.”

  “How positively dreadful.”
Professor Bridges’ concern was palpable in her fine contralto. Her words were plumy, vaguely British in intonation—the same tones in which Preston’s mother had spoken, Louise realized. A totally different accent than that of the girls in the boarding house.

  Louise had long ago gotten over her debilitating girlhood shyness, but she felt intimidated by this lady’s style and aplomb. She could never have imagined such sophistication. A professor!

  Professor Bridges stared at Louise for a long moment, expression inscrutable, then she unexpectedly gave a warm smile, immediately setting the younger woman at ease. “Oh, my dear. I must apologize! I simply barge in here without even introducing myself. I’m Lillian Bridges, the Oakleys’ good friend. You must be Masako’s cherished Nurse Louise. She hasn’t been able to stop talking about how wonderful you are with Robert.”

  Louise felt herself blushing. “I’m just doing my job,” she said, and then wanted to kick herself. What a graceless way to receive a compliment.

  “But, how is Robert?” A concerned expression suffused the woman’s face. “This must have been such a shock for him.” She peeled off a pair of red kidskin gloves that would have cost Louise a week’s pay and jammed them in her coat pocket.

  “He’s as well as could be expected.” As Louise spoke she could hear the inanity of the words.

  “Well, my dear,” the professor took Louise’s hand and held it in both of hers. “I must see him—perhaps I can provide some comfort during this terrible time. And I can take in the flowers I brought yesterday.” She dropped Louise’s hand to point out the vase of chrysanthemums that had raised Agent Bagwell’s suspicions. “I can’t think why Masako hasn’t placed them by Robert’s bedside. My bright posies can hardly raise his spirits if they’re out of sight.”

  Louise swallowed hard; Miss Bridges had such an air of authority that it wouldn’t be easy to deny her wishes. “I’m sorry.” She grimaced and hated herself for it. “He’s sleeping. He can’t be disturbed.”

  The wide gray eyes fixed her. “Then, dear, I’ll sit quietly beside him until he wakes up.” Professor Bridges was of the generation and class that could wield polite speech as adroitly as a fencing foil.

  “I can’t allow it. Really. No visitors. Doctor’s orders.” She tacked the last bit on impromptu, certain Dr. Wright would agree.

  “Hmm.” Lillian Bridges strolled to the window and looked out, apparently contemplating the Hudson’s choppy waves.

  Louise breathed more easily—maybe her visitor wasn’t going to make a fuss.

  The lady professor turned back from the window. “Well, if his doctor says…” She chewed her lower lip, and made the act appear pensive rather than crude. Then she spoke. “This is what I’m concerned about, Nurse. With Masako gone, someone must organize Robert’s affairs, and I believe I’m the only one available to do it.” She nodded her long chin. “The sooner I can talk to him the better, you see. I’ll have to cancel what needs to be cancelled. Schedule his courses for next semester. Oversee his care. Call Rutherford.”

  “Rutherford?” Louise asked, feeling suddenly at sea.

  Lillian Bridges waved an airy hand. “Robert’s attorney, Rutherford Pierce. In Masako’s interests, Robert must secure legal expertise at once. You see, my dear, Ruttie’s father was at Harvard with us—well, I was at Radcliffe, but it’s just across the street. We were all the best of friends.”

  A ray of hope seemed to emerge from behind the cloud. The Oakleys’ lawyer! Perhaps this Rutherford really could help Mrs. Oakley—Louise would discuss it with her patient when he woke up.

  Miss Bridges stepped toward Louise, rattling on, “Rutherford will get to work securing Masako’s release right away. That dear girl cares nothing for politics—her art is her sole reason for being. She needs the best representation money can procure.”

  Louise caught a whiff of Chanel #5 and breathed in its subtle sweetness. She had never known a woman like this, one who was both attractive and feminine, yet seemingly so very much at home in the larger world of what Louise had always considered men’s affairs—the university, medicine, the law. Certainly her mother was nothing like Professor Bridges; she dressed well, of course, but dithered constantly. What Louise wouldn’t give for just half Miss Bridges’ aplomb.

  If Louise stayed on the case long enough, perhaps she could expand her knowledge of the world in which these two sophisticated woman—Lillian Bridges and Masako Oakley—dwelt. That world seemed to offer a far more engaging life than the stale, lady-like social rounds awaiting her at home.

  But right now she had to summon the authority she did have, that imparted to her by a long line of plainer, sterner women—her nursing teachers and ward supervisors. Louise opened the front door. “I’ll let the professor know about your offer. And if you’ll leave your number, I’ll call you as soon as Dr. Wright allows a visitor. Goodbye for now, Professor Bridges.”

  Chapter Nine

  The air smelled metallic and thin, the way it always did when the streets were icy cold. Inside her heavy tweed coat, Cabby shivered as she dodged men in uniform hurrying urgently along Fifth Avenue. The buses and subways were full of them, too. Young faces—bewildered, excited, stoic—all intent on getting back to their camps and ships. Or those in street clothes on their way to the recruiting station. You could tell them by the look of serious purpose and far horizons in their eyes. For once she was glad she wasn’t dating anyone steady.

  Cabby turned her thoughts to work as she rounded the corner onto Fifty-seventh Street. Even though this art gallery deal wasn’t in the same league as the men’s assignments, it sounded like there might be some meat on the bone.

  Especially if she could pry a few details out of Louise about this Masako Fumi dame.

  The Shelton Gallery of Contemporary Art occupied one of four old row houses on the southwest side of Fifty-seventh. A tasteful dark-green canopy sheltered the entrance, but Cabby focused on the display window—or what was left of it.

  The arched frame gaped with shards of glass. She shuddered; against the background of tightly drawn scarlet drapery, those shards looked like crystal fangs in an enormous bloody mouth. It would’ve made a great photo—too bad she didn’t rate an assigned photographer.

  Beneath the window, someone had printed in shaky block letters running with white drips, NO GO JAP SHOW.

  Cabby stepped closer.

  “Move along, sister.”

  Cabby jerked around. A beat cop stood wide-legged before the double entry doors.

  “I’m a reporter,” Cabby said, striding into the dimness created by the canopy. “Did you witness the vandalism?”

  “Reporter, eh?” The flatfoot crossed his arms and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Getting a story for the high school newspaper, are ya?”

  Cabby cursed her snub nose and petite frame. Pert. Elfin. Gamine—whatever that meant. Cabby had heard it all and wanted no part of it. Maybe if she were tall and lean with a fall of honey-colored hair she could comb into a pompadour, an elegant beauty like Louise, then people would take her seriously.

  Mashing her peaked hat flatter to her crisp curls, she marched up to the cop, reached into her shoulder bag and flipped her notebook open to the press pass. “New York Times, officer.”

  His gaze roved up and down, not stopping at the card. “Well, now. I wouldn’t mind lettin’ ya in, sister. Looks like we’re gonna be here for a while, and we could sure use the decorative value. But I got orders. No visitors, press or otherwise.” His blue eyes turned icy. “So scram.”

  “But…” Cabby’s gaze had been roving, too, searching for inspiration. It lit on a glass-encased placard to the right of the door: Arthur Shelton of the Shelton Gallery of Contemporary Art was pleased to represent the work of Masako Fumi and three other Asian artists whose names might be chop suey ingredients as far as Cabby could tell. Vintage decorative curios were a
lso a specialty.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m here to meet with Arthur Shelton. I have an appointment,” she finished firmly.

  “Yer here to see Shelton?” The cop chewed at his lower lip, blue eyes growing a degree warmer. “Don’t go away.” He reached for the doorknob behind him.

  Whoopee, thought Cabby, he’s actually going to let me in.

  But the door opened to another blue uniform and a brief, whispered conference. It slammed shut with Cabby on the wrong side.

  Chapter Ten

  Lieutenant Michael McKenna cocked his head right. Then left. He tried tightening his eyes to slits, stepping closer, stepping back. No go. The four-by-six foot canvas on the wall of Shelton’s main gallery remained a mishmash of bilious yellow, crimson, and fuzzy green. A line of Japanese characters ran up a whitish panel on the right side of the canvas, overlaid by a haphazard design of wine-colored drips and spatters. Like drifting clouds or damp tea leaves at the bottom of a cup, the painting could reveal everything or nothing. It told him nothing.

  The body lying at the foot of the painting. Now, that said a lot.

  A youngish man—once good looking. If you liked the weedy type. He’d been dead long enough to stink, several days at least, and his skull was smashed in at the base of the occipital bone where the head was propped against the wall. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to the elbows, his tie loosened, like he’d been attacked in the middle of some physical labor.

  McKenna went down on his haunches, sweeping the tail of his overcoat well away from the smear of blood that trailed from corpse back to the archway leading to a smaller gallery. Ignoring the stench, he peered closer. Above the blood soaking the shirt collar, corn silk hair was combed back flat. A pointed chin dug into a concave chest, and the rest of the guy’s slender frame flowed in a boneless curve on the terrazzo floor. No wrinkles around the eyes or mouth. Thirty, McKenna guessed, probably more under than over.