Louise tried to catch Dr. Wright’s eye, but his gaze remained glued to his watch as he assessed the professor’s pulse. Over the past few days, she’d been impressed by the dapper physician with his pencil-thin moustache and exhausted blue eyes. But she couldn’t agree with his decision to allow this badge-flashing policeman to question their desperately ill patient.
Lieutenant McKenna lifted the hat he hadn’t bothered to remove. He smoothed a hand over thinning hair and tugged the brim into place again. “Shelton was closing the gallery show,” the detective prodded. “Was your wife angry about that?”
“Masako…?” Oakley gazed at the detective with disbelief. “Masako never hurt a soul in her life.”
“Having her paintings taken down must have been a blow.” McKenna’s grey eyes held an unreadable expression. “Nobody would blame her for being mad.”
“My god!” The professor’s voice was strangled. “You’re accusing my wife of murder!” He pushed up to one elbow and coughed convulsively.
Dr. Wright struggled to ease their agitated patient back into a semi-reclining position. Louise should have helped, but a sudden realization kept her rooted to a spot at the foot of the bed: she’d actually met this Arthur Shelton, the man who’d been killed.
On Thursday, her second night on the Oakley case, one of the professor’s colleagues had dropped by to assure him that his classes were being covered in his absence. A younger man had accompanied Professor Smoot, and Mrs. Oakley had introduced him as the gallery owner who was showing her paintings. Arthur Shelton. Yes, that was the name. And now he was dead!
“Nurse!”
Louise gave a small gasp. Dr. Wright had both hands on the professor’s shoulders and was attempting to keep him in bed by sheer force. Men! Her patient was behaving like a cantankerous old goat, and Dr. Wright not much better. She grabbed an empty basin and a damp cloth.
Both McKenna and the doctor stepped back while Louise wiped her patient’s face. She put her mouth against his ear and whispered, “He’s baiting you, Professor. Don’t you see? The more upset you get, the more suspicious he will be. Just answer his questions calmly.”
Oakley’s nod was barely perceptible, but he stopped struggling and answered the detective in a weak, reedy voice, “Masako and I owe Arthur a good deal…” A panting breath. “Of course she was disappointed when he talked of closing the show, but she understood.”
Louise’s eyebrows shot up. That was not how she remembered it.
“Your five minutes are up, Lieutenant,” Dr. Wright broke in with vehemence. “I can’t be responsible for this man’s condition if you persist.”
“Just one more thing,” the detective said. His gaze locked Oakley’s. “Are you sure that neither you or your wife left this apartment on Friday evening?”
“Perfectly sure,” the professor answered sharply. “Isn’t that what I told you the first time you asked?”
“And that’s it.” Dr. Wright removed a stethoscope from his bag and snapped the ends around his neck. “Nurse, show the detective out.”
***
As they moved down the corridor toward the foyer, Louise registered a more detailed impression of the policeman. He had a slight limp and a trace of stiffness in the right leg as if he’d once been wounded, but his back was as straight as a ramrod and his face weathered from being outdoors. A self-assured man, obviously, not easily thrown. But where the G-men from last night had humiliated the Oakleys and treated them with outright contempt, McKenna seemed merely…dogged. A man doing his job without malice or unwarranted prejudice. And also without much pleasure, she’d bet.
At the door, he paused and asked her name. She gave it, trying to ignore the flash of anxiety that registered in her abdomen.
“All right, Nurse Hunter,” he continued. “You tell me—were both the Oakleys here all night Friday?”
“On my shift, yes. From around seven thirty on. The professor’s weak as a kitten, of course. And Mrs. Oakley never, ever, left him—even when I encouraged her to get a breath of fresh air.”
The detective frowned wearily. “Well, that’s all for now. You can go back to your patient.”
Louise watched him plod down the fifth-floor hallway to the elevator, then she closed the door and sagged against the solid oak. Thank god he hadn’t asked her any direct questions about Arthur Shelton. She’d nearly spoken out when the professor said his wife “understood” why Shelton had decided to cut her show short. Some instinct, however, had told her to wait.
The Thursday evening of Shelton’s visit, Louise had been organizing her sickroom supplies when the art dealer mentioned his anxiety over the increasing opposition to the show. Masako Oakley had been offended, quietly but deeply. After some strained small talk, the Japanese woman had invited Mr. Shelton to speak with her in the den. Passing that room a few minutes later on her way to the kitchen, Louise overheard a heated argument. It was the only time Louise had known her patient’s wife to lose her composure.
Perhaps Professor Oakley hadn’t realized how strongly his wife felt. It would be just like that gentle artist to keep from worrying him. Even so, Louise thought, shouldn’t she tell Lieutenant McKenna what she’d seen and heard?
She crossed her arms and took a deep inhalation. No, the first rule in nursing a pneumonia patient was to prevent any upset—emotional or otherwise—that might sap the patient’s strength, and Professor Oakley had already had enough to fell a man half his age. From that perspective, it was actually her professional duty to keep quiet.
Troubled, Louise smoothed the skirt of her starched uniform. She started back down the hallway, meeting Dr. Wright near the telephone bench in the corner niche.
“I’ve administered a sedative. It should hold him until I make my evening rounds.” The doctor continued with a rueful shake of his head, “I wouldn’t have allowed McKenna in if I’d had any inkling Shelton had been murdered. I can hardly believe it. At Masako’s reception, Arthur was as frisky and happy as a spring lamb rolling in clover.”
Louise cleared her throat, deferentially, she hoped. She had something to say. Doctors didn’t generally welcome a nurse’s opinions, but she plowed ahead anyway. “Shouldn’t Professor Oakley be in the hospital, Doctor? I’ve been concerned since my first night on the case. Like so many men his age, the professor measures his vigor by what he could accomplish ten or twenty years ago.”
The doctor raised one eyebrow, and an ominous rumble came from his throat.
Louise hurried on. “Mrs. Oakley was always able to talk some sense into him, but now…” She spread her hands helplessly. “When he comes out of the sedative, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep him in bed.”
Wright smoothed his moustache, first one side then the other. “Of course I want to hospitalize him, but the obstinate s.o.b. simply digs his heels in and refuses to go. And, now, with war looming, beds are suddenly in short supply. Half the old dears on the Upper West Side are having heart attacks. At least, they think they are.” He sighed heavily. “You wouldn’t believe the hysteria. Rumors of imminent invasion are running through entire buildings, and unlike Bob Oakley, some people see the hospital as the last safe place.
“So, no,” he continued. “Hospitalization will have to be a last resort.” He sighed. “But I do have an idea—Bob actually suggested it.” His blue eyes quizzed her. “You’re a clever girl, quite capable of serving as Bob’s eyes and ears—even his legs if need be. I fear Shelton’s murder will complicate things considerably. If this cop really considers Masako as a suspect, then she’s in double jeopardy—from the government and from the police. Our patient will need a damn good lawyer, and you can help him find one.
“What if you take on a new role here, that of the professor’s personal aide? I can find another nurse, but I don’t have a clue where I could locate a personal assistant as competent as you would be. You could
make phone calls, follow up on attorney references, write letters, run errands. As for nursing care, don’t worry about that—I’ll make arrangements with the agency.”
Louise hesitated; these were the sort of thing the professor’s friend, Lillian Bridges, had offered to do. She told the doctor about Miss Bridges’ visit and her mention of Rutherford Pierce, the family lawyer.
He frowned. “Lillian has her own work, and you’re right here on the spot. I’d rather have you in charge.”
“I don’t think I—”
“And as for young Rutherford, he wouldn’t touch a civil liberties case with a ten-foot pole.”
“But—”
The doctor touched her arm. “Listen, you know Bob’s mind won’t be at ease until he has some word that Masako is all right.” He sank down on the phone bench and looked up at her. “I’m aware this is irregular, Nurse Hunter—believe me, I am. But I’m certain that if he knows everything possible is being done for Masako, he’ll be much more manageable.”
She considered this radical departure from nursing protocol. But then, why not? Masako’s arrest was just plain…un-American. Even now Louise felt hot fury come over her at the recollection of last night’s events. Where did her allegiances lie? With her patient and his wife, of course. Louise shouldn’t let anything get in the way of the professor’s recovery. And, it was more than that; it was a question of justice. Even if Masako’s homeland had started a war, that innocent woman should be safe where she had chosen to live. “Okay, I’ll do it. Just…tell the agency to send someone…” She thought of the nurses the professor had already tossed out. Capable girls, but not able to match wits with the learned Oakley. “Someone…”
“With a brain?” the doctor finished, as he picked up the telephone receiver.
Louise’s face relaxed into a smile. “You understand.”
“I’ll call Sullivan’s right now—for day and night coverage.”
Louise nodded, anxious to get back to the professor. Not yet dialing, the doctor held her gaze for another moment. “I’ll let myself out.” Unbelievably, he winked. “I’m still capable of that—even though, like Bob Oakley, I’m no spring chicken.”
She could hear the dial tone buzz as his expression grew serious again. “Just find the right attorney, Nurse Hunter, the very best you can get.”
“But, who?”
“A man who knows how to fight racial prejudice. A radical—even a Bolshie, if you must. That will be the most salutary medicine you can provide for our patient.”
A Bolshie. What was that? And where on earth would she find one? Louise chewed at a thumbnail. She’d bet anything Lillian Bridges would have been able to find a Bolshie.
Chapter Sixteen
Headed cross-town to Madison Avenue, McKenna pondered the scene at the Oakleys’. The sick man hadn’t been much help, but he’d bet that pretty nurse knew something she wasn’t telling. He’d have to keep her in mind. He was on his way now to question Nigel Fairchild at America First headquarters, but a radio call from Dolan suddenly changed his priorities. “Turn around,” McKenna ordered the police driver. “We’re going uptown. Columbia University.”
On the way to look at mug shots, Desmond Cox had casually informed Sergeant Dolan that he’d already called Arthur Shelton’s “special professor friend” to inform him of his loss, and that “Lawrence hadn’t taken it well.”
“Special friend?” Dolan questioned, a little slow on the uptake. “Lawrence? Do you mean that Professor Smoot you mentioned?”
“Yes. Arthur’s dear, dear friend,” Cox responded.
Dolan got it then and radioed the news to McKenna, who cursed himself for not picking up on the fat hint Cox had dropped earlier.
“Where can I find Professor Smoot?” McKenna asked.
Dolan’s voice was muffled for a second, then: “If he’s still at work, Cox says Smoot will be in the Arts-Humanities building up at Columbia.”
Detour time. Fairchild could wait a while. If a homicide wasn’t over money, it usually had a domestic or sexual twist, and if this Shelton-Smoot thing was as advertised, the professor might be more important than some rabble-rousing isolationist who objected to Jap art.
“Mind if I turn on the radio, Lute?” The driver already had his gloved hand on the knob. At McKenna’s questioning look, he went on, “President Roosevelt is supposed to speak.”
“Oh…sure.” McKenna let out a deep sigh. Here he was fretting his brain over one dead art dealer while FDR had thousands of dead to worry about. And more to come.
Chapter Seventeen
Howie Schroeder was off his turf. He knew the blocks between school and home: every candy store, every news stand, every bully on the lookout for a kid he could strong arm into forking over pocket change. After he’d turned left on Bedford, into strange territory, he could be jumped any minute. His gut fluttered as he covered the unfamiliar blocks, but that was okay. He had to do this. Cheapy Hermann lived off Bedford up in Crown Heights, and Cheapy was the guy he needed to see.
Howie had questions Ma refused to answer. The more everybody talked about Hitler’s stormtroopers, the more his scattered memories of that weird summer camp he and Cheapy had gone to bugged him. Even more since yesterday—“a date which will live in infamy” the president had called it. He would never in his life forget those words. When Mr. Klein, the principal, had trooped the whole school into the auditorium after lunch to hear FDR’s speech on the big radio, Howie had felt like jumping up and cheering when he heard them—“A date which will live in infamy.”
Everyone feared the next attack would come from Germany. Hitler. For a moment Howie felt himself sneering. At the movies, Charlie Chaplin and the Three Stooges played the little man with the toothbrush moustache mostly for laughs. Howie used to laugh, too, but then Miss Gilpin, his history teacher, said Hitler was no bumbling fool. She called him a lunatic determined to take over the world—no matter how many people got slaughtered.
And Ma wasn’t amused either. There was something dark in her blue eyes whenever Hitler’s name came up. It was as if the sun was swallowed up by one of those dark, towering storm clouds Mr. Levine in biology called nimbostratus. The kind that hung low and brooding and almost suffocated the earth. Ma wasn’t talking, but Howie could read her moods like a book. He didn’t know the details of what was happening over in Europe, but he was putting the pieces together and beginning to think that just maybe Adolph Hitler was evil incarnate.
Yeah—Hitler. Howie had to get that summer straight. But his memories of the camp on Long Island were fuzzy and out of sequence, like a movie with reels all mixed up. If he was lucky, Cheapy would remember all that junk. He was two years older than Howie, sixteen now, and a junior at a different high school.
Howie clenched his fingers around the silver dollar in his pocket. Cheapy Hermann had come by his nickname honest. Those years at Camp Siggy, he’d always been the biggest mooch. If your ma mailed you a box of cookies, watch out ’cause Cheapy was on you like fleas on a rat. If Cheapy wouldn’t talk about Camp Siggy without incentive, Howie was prepared to sacrifice the birthday silver dollar he’d kept in a leather pouch since last February twelfth.
It was that important.
The weekend trips had started out as fun. He must’ve been eight or nine when all of a sudden summer Sundays were different. Instead of squeezing into his itchy suit and tight dress shoes and trudging over to Emmanuel Lutheran for some boring service, he’d been told to put on shorts. Ma wore a flowered dress with a straw hat and filled a picnic basket with sandwiches, potato salad, and thick slabs of chocolate cake. Papa, all spit-and-polish, in some sort of uniform, hustled them to the Flatbush station to catch the Long Island Railroad.
He was sure it had been a special train. While the parents yakked in the old language, he and Cheapy and the other kids ran up and down the aisles like they never wo
uld have got away with on a regular run.
His next memory involved some podunk town. Papa and the other men wore brown shirts and tall leather boots, and they marched down the burg’s one main street to the campgrounds. He’d marched right next to Papa while trumpets blared and made you want to puff out your chest and pick up your knees. They sang German songs, and bright flags snapped in the breeze—the American flag, the German flag, and one other…. It was the image of that other flag that ate at Howie now. That and the townspeople’s faces—half sneering, half afraid.
And then the next summer, Ma didn’t want him to go to camp without them. She and Papa argued, but Howie went anyway—for two whole weeks. It wasn’t fun anymore. Instead of swimming and hiking, they’d been made to work at clearing trees and underbrush from a hillside where the men were planning to build a clubhouse.
Howie slowed at the corner of Bedford and Pacific. This was Cheapy’s street. He took a big gulp, then dodged a crowd gathering around a roast chestnut stand. Ignoring the smell that made his mouth water, he scanned the block for Cheapy’s five-story walk-up. He hadn’t been there for three or four years, but Howie recognized it right away—red-brick with a fire escape smack down the middle. He climbed to the third floor and found apartment 3-E.
Cheapy’s mother answered his knock. She had dyed black hair, a pearl necklace that got lost in fleshy neck creases, and a growl in her vocal cords. She smelled like cigarettes.
Howie whipped off his cap. “Hello, Mrs. Hermann.”
“Oh, my.” She touched the pearls as she looked him up and down. “It’s Howie Schroeder, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, well…so grown up. How is your mother, dear? I keep meaning to visit, but I know how busy she must be. Running that house…coping during this terrible time. And without Ernst…” Concern deepened in her brown eyes. She bent close, lowered her voice, placed a hand on his shoulder. “Helda’s all right, isn’t she? I mean, nothing has happened…”
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