Face of the Enemy

by Beverle Graves Myers

  Howie shuffled his feet. “Yes, ma’am. Ma’s fine. I came to see Cheapy.”

  At her son’s nickname, Mrs. Hermann frowned and straightened her back, thrusting the bosom of her nubby sweater within inches of Howie’s nose. “Then you’ll have to ask for him properly.”

  Howie ducked his chin. He’d just spied Cheapy coming through the French doors from the living room, but he’d never get past the mother if he didn’t make like Little Lord Fauntleroy. He raised his head and spoke like he was reciting a poem in English class. “Of course, Mrs. Hermann. I’m sorry. What I meant to ask…well…Is Waldemar at home this afternoon?”

  Two minutes later Howie watched as Waldemar opened his bedroom window, dug under his mattress for a pack of Camels, and lit up.

  The lanky boy with the greased-back swoop of blond hair dangled his cigarette over the sill. “Want one? Ma’ll never know if we keep the smoke outta the room.”

  Seated at the narrow student desk at the foot of the bed, Howie shook his head, then rubbed the thighs of his corduroy pants. He looked around the room highlighted with Dodgers pennants and balsa wood airplanes. Now that he was here, he was scared he might learn something he didn’t want to know.

  The older boy took a deep drag and blew a series of smoke rings that the breeze quickly tore to shreds. He turned to Howie with a grin. “So, what brings you all the way up here, squirt? Ain’t seen you since your old man took a hike.”

  Ignoring the dig about Papa, Howie sat forward. Now or never. “It’s about Camp Siggy.”

  “Camp Siegfried, shrimp. What about it?”

  “Look, lay off the shrimp stuff. Okay?” He’d forgotten what a wiseass Cheapy could be. “I’m almost as tall as you, now. Just give me the dope—what went on out there?”

  Cheapy shrugged. “Our parents hauled us out to Yaphank to learn how to be good little Krauts. You were there. We went on the train until your dad bought this big Packard and gave us all a ride. What else ya need to know?”

  “I was just a little kid—I don’t remember much. Calisthenics every morning, hauling branches and rocks all day, maybe some volleyball in the evening.”

  “You forgot the lectures?” Cheapy balanced his cigarette on the sill, hopped up, and crinkled his face into a stern mask. “Our rac-ce is bound by blood,” he recited in Germanic tones. “Effry one of us is a countryman. No matter vhere the vind blows, ve must keep racial duties first and foremost in the heart.”

  “Racial duties?” Howie’s stomach tightened.

  “Yeah.” Cheapy slumped back in the window and took another drag. “Old Fritzy was big on that. True Germans are all blood brothers, like when Indian braves cut their hands with knives and mix their blood. What a bunch of crap!”

  “But we’re Americans.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” Cheapy shook his head. “But that didn’t matter to Fritzy. In his book, we were all supposed to worship Hitler, no matter what. My dad used to say that a good German was a good American because we would keep America out of war. But not Fritzy. Ya know, now that I think about it, he was getting all of us good little liebchen ready to become soldiers for der Fuhrer.”

  “Fritzy—was he a fat little man with wire spectacles?” Things were beginning to drop into place.

  “Yeah. Fritz Kuhn. Your dad was tight with him. My dad, too. Them and Mister Mueller and Billy Krueger’s dad. They kinda ran the show at Camp Siegfried—ran the whole goddamned German-American Bund. Until the big fight, that is. That’s when my dad stepped down. He said the organization was getting out of hand.”

  Another memory worked its way to the surface.

  One night, after lights out, he’d been curled up in his bunk when he heard screaming and yelling. All the boys from his tent ran out onto the path. Howie clenched his toes—he could feel his bare feet on the sharp gravel like it was happening right now.

  Men and older boys from the camp were fighting the townspeople, fists flying, bottles breaking. Ax handles and clubs pounding flesh. Mr. Schultz, the hardware store guy, had run right past them, his eye blackened, blood streaming down his face. Then their counselor hustled them back in the tent and closed the flap. He’d even tied it shut so they couldn’t get out. Howie had covered his head with a pillow and lay stiff as a poker, trying to pretend he was home in his own, safe bed.

  “What was that fight about?” Howie asked Cheapy in a whisper.

  “Local guys taking info to pass along to the government, writing down the license plate numbers of cars in the parking lot. G-men don’t like Nazi stuff going on right under their noses.”

  Nazi stuff. That’s what he didn’t want to remember! The flags bearing swastikas flying right up there next to the Stars and Stripes and the banners of George Washington. Marigolds planted in the shape of the swastika. And…worst of all—Papa cheering at a Bund rally, joining the other men in the enemy salute. The Kraut salute.

  The Nazi salute.

  How could Howie have forgotten that? Spit filled his mouth—his jaws ached—he felt like he was going to be sick. Right there. All over Cheapy’s bed.

  “Course we stopped going out to Yaphank then.” Cheapy flicked his butt away and closed the window. “All that Nazi stuff turned out to be a bunch of crap, and old Fritzy got in trouble for stealing money off the Bund. I’m supposed to keep my trap shut about it, but I guess it’s okay to talk to you. You were there. Plus, wherever he’s got to, your dad’s still in it up to his armpits.”

  “What?” Cheapy’s words slammed Howie like a tomahawk. “Papa went to California.”

  “Your…papa. He’s as big a Nazi as Fritz Kuhn ever was.”

  Something exploded behind Howie’s eyes. He threw himself at Cheapy and shoved hard. The other boy’s skull hit the bed’s maple headboard with a sharp crack.

  “Boys!” Mrs. Hermann’s voice from the other side of the door stopped Howie from piling on. Her tone was shrill as she rattled the knob. “What’s going on in there? Open up.”

  Cheapy pushed up on his elbows while Howie glared at him, breathing hard. Their eyes tangled for a long moment. Was Howie gonna be tossed out? But then Cheapy looked away.

  “Nothing, Ma,” he called out. “Just wrestling.”

  “Well, tone it down. You’re not out on the street.” Her heels clattered away.

  Cheapy sat up and rubbed his head. His whisper was fierce. “Shit, Howie. What’d ya wanna go and do that for?”

  Howie fought to keep his voice from cracking. “My dad’s not a Nazi. He quit the Bund.”

  Cheapy snorted through his nose. “That’s what you think.”

  “He did. Papa went out west to find a better job, but then he got sick. He’s going to start sending us money real soon and someday we’ll go out there, too. Pasadena. Ma says!”

  “Stupid kid. Don’t you know nothin’?” Cheapy jack-knifed off the mattress and stuck his mug in Howie’s face. “I hear the grownups. Your dad didn’t head west. In ’38 he and a bunch of other guys went to Germany. They went to meet with Hitler himself—and your dad never came back.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Tell me about your relations with Arthur Shelton,” McKenna asked the distraught professor behind the desk. Based on nothing more than his photo in the department corridor, McKenna had pegged Lawrence Smoot as a pretentious, condescending know-it-all and decided to take a hard line.

  Smoot choked on an inhalation of cigarette smoke. “Well—really, Lieutenant.” He opened both eyes wide and flapped his hands as he coughed.

  Lillian Bridges, the elegant English professor who’d been drying Smoot’s tears when the detective arrived, hovered over the man like a mother lioness with her cub, casting McKenna a look of reproach.

  “Business relations,” McKenna clarified and waited.

  “Business. Ah, yes. Well…” Stabbing out his
unfinished cigarette, Smoot lowered his eyelids. “I taught Arthur everything he knew.”

  “Did you now?” McKenna asked dubiously.

  “About the art business—yes.” Smoot wiped red eyes with a monogrammed linen handkerchief and cleared his throat. “You’ve got to understand about Arthur. He was the most charming man—magnetic.”

  “Everyone felt it,” the lady professor added. “Women as well as men. Arthur was truly one of a kind.” She laid a hand on Smoot’s shoulder.

  Smoot patted her long fingers. “Well said, Lillian. One of a kind. But when we first met, the dear boy had more gall than knowledge.”

  “Shelton’s associate seemed to think he was topnotch where art was concerned.”

  “What associate?” Smoot asked, frowning.

  McKenna raised an eyebrow. “That’s how Desmond Cox described himself.”

  Smoot gave McKenna a reproving look. “Well, if you’re going to listen to young Desmond…”

  Bridges gave a delicate snort. “Desmond Cox was Arthur’s errand boy. Nothing more.”

  “That so?” In the hallway outside the office, McKenna heard the sudden tromp of feet and the subdued voices of young men.

  Smoot followed McKenna’s gaze. “Our students—God bless them—changing classes.” His voice fell into the deeper register McKenna associated with recitation: “What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?”

  “Huh?”

  “Only the monstrous anger of the guns. / Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle / Can patter out their hasty orisons. Do you know Wilfred Owen, Lieutenant? One of the greats of our generation—ours, meaning yours and mine, of course. Did you fight in the last war?”

  “Oh, poetry.” McKenna, refusing to be distracted, pulled a notebook from his jacket. “Let’s get to it. Tell me, Professor—when did you meet Arthur Shelton?”

  Smoot made an effort to gather himself. “Three years ago, at an auction of Asian art. Robert and Masako Oakley were with me.” Smoot turned to the dark-haired woman. “I seem to recall that you tagged along, too, Lillian?”

  “Yes, I did.” An ambiguous look crossed her face. Was it because of the “tagged along?” McKenna doubted that this striking woman would enjoy the role of fifth wheel. “Arthur and Lawrence,” she continued, “we go…went almost everywhere together. Often with Robert and Masako. I’ve known Robert Oakley for years and years, since I was at Radcliffe and he at Harvard.”

  McKenna glanced at the diplomas hung among the Japanese prints that decorated Smoot’s walls. “You went to Harvard, too.”

  “Yes. Robert and I shared an interest in the Far East. We were also in Drama Club together. He was Tybalt to my Romeo. Claudius to my Hamlet.”

  Bridges added, now smiling, “And there was the Macbeth where we three donned black robes and fright wigs to play the witches.” She snorted a giggle. “A bit of Shakespearean drag for you and Robert.”

  “Sounds like one, big happy family.” McKenna tried to keep any hint of revulsion out of his voice. He’d never cared for women who hung around with fruits and didn’t understand why any regular guy would make a friend of one. He turned back to Smoot. “But, tell me about you and Arthur Shelton.”

  “Arthur and I…we hit it off right from the start.” Smoot paused and looked up at the ceiling. Then he cleared his throat again. “And he fit right into the group. After that auction we all went to dinner and ended up at Masako’s studio. Arthur was terribly impressed with her work.”

  Smoot rummaged under the piles of blue exam books covering his desk and came up with a silver cigarette case. He tapped a cigarette on its shiny surface, stretched a hand toward a jade tabletop lighter, then paused and extended the open case. “Lieutenant?” he offered with a hint of jauntiness. “Lillian doesn’t partake.”

  McKenna shook his head. Shelton’s body had been discovered only this morning, but Smoot was trying to appear as if he’d already conquered his grief. Pansies! McKenna willed himself not to squirm. Maybe that’s the way those guys operated—here today, gone tomorrow—he wouldn’t get it if he lived to be a hundred.

  “But,” he said, “I understand not everybody is so hot on Mrs. Oakley’s paintings.”

  “Those protesters at the gallery, you mean?” Lillian Bridges shuddered. “Lawrence and I were forced to run their gauntlet last week.”

  Smoot broke in. “It’s war fervor. Arthur got calls and letters from malcontents charging him with disloyalty. Even before the bombing attacks, it had gotten so anything connected to Japan or its culture was suspect. I imagine that now things will only get worse—you see the trouble the attacks have caused for Masako.”

  “You know about her arrest, huh?”

  Miss Bridges answered, “The morning papers said the FBI had raided Japanese homes and businesses. Of course, I went over to the Oakleys’ immediately.”

  Smoot sighed. “Poor Robert.”

  “Why ‘Poor Robert?’” McKenna asked, recalling Oakley’s almost hysterical concern over his wife’s detention. He’d bet Oakley would rather his friends worry about Masako than about him.

  “Well, Robert has had more than his share of tragedy.” Smoot took a quick draw on his cigarette. “Virginia, his first wife, died—close to eight years ago. What a nightmare—and in such a backward country, too.”

  “Really? Where was that?” McKenna was naturally curious when it came to death.

  “Algeria. She died in agony. Food poisoning most likely—underdone goat, rancid oil. Who knows? The food in North Africa always keeps one guessing.”

  “Algeria?” That was a hell of a note. McKenna had a vague image of dusty robes and camels with bells on their harnesses. Geography had never been his strong point, but, then, he hadn’t had the luxury of a fancy education like these two.

  “Yes. We were on a tour of Egypt and North Africa for Arts and Science faculty. Robert just about collapsed. Thank god Lillian and I were there to prop him up.”

  Smoot glanced at Bridges, and she took the cue. “I organized a ferry over to Marseilles and we took a steamship home, the three of us in saloon and poor Virginia’s coffin in the cargo hold. We expected Robert to wallow in despair forever. He surprised us, though.” She crossed her arms. “Within the year, he’d gone to Paris, met Masako, and married again.”

  “I see.” These two had yakked long enough to get all relaxed and confidential. He’d just keep that mood going for another minute. He rose and ambled over to the framed prints—landscapes of rolling hills, misty waterfalls, and blossoming cherry trees. “These are really pretty.” They sure as hell didn’t look anything like the bizarre paintings in Shelton’s gallery.

  “Pretty, Lieutenant?” Smoot waved a hand at the collection. “Surely you can do better than that. Those are antique prints of even older Yamato-e.” He tented long, finely boned hands. “Notice the striking compositions that feature natural landscape and the four seasons.” He nodded into his ascot, the consummate professional educating one of the hoi polloi. “Masako Fumi borrows a great deal from the Yamato-e style, especially the poetry that follows the theme of the painting itself. You see—there on your right—the complementary text appears at the very edge.”

  “Oh, yeah?” McKenna waved a lazy hand and wandered back to his seat. “Did you buy those babies from Arthur Shelton?”

  Smoot took a haughty tone. “Those babies, as you call them, predate Arthur considerably.”

  “Yeah?” Another slow nod, inviting disclosure.

  “I’m the one with the expertise, Lieutenant. I took Arthur under my wing, taught him all about Asian art and introduced him to Asian artists working in the West.” Smoot shifted in his leather chair. “As well as to patrons who happen to have deep pockets.”

  Lillian Bridges chimed in. “Lawrence is right. Arthur did well for himself because he had a great eye and was
a natural salesman, but his initial success sat squarely on Lawrence’s shoulders.”

  The monogrammed handkerchief came into play again as Smoot dipped his chin toward Lillian Bridges.

  “So—” McKenna leaned forward. “Will the gallery close now that Shelton’s gone?”

  Smoot took a longer draw on his cigarette. “I suppose that’s a question for the lawyers.”

  “Had Shelton made a will?”

  “Who makes a will at thirty-one?” Smoot shook his head.

  “Okay.” McKenna scribbled a last note, stood, and reached for his hat. But he kept notebook and pencil in hand. “That should do it for now.” Over the years, he’d noticed that the mugs sometimes came up with the straight dope when they thought he had one foot out the door. He made his good byes mild and casual. With his hand on the doorknob he turned back. “Just to round out the case, where were you on the evening of Friday the fifth, Professor Bridges?”

  “Me?” The lady’s hand fluttered to her throat. “That was last Friday? Hmm. Oh, yes. I thought I was coming down with a cold, so I skipped office hours and went home around four. I stopped at a delicatessen for some chicken soup, and then—straight to bed.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “Well, no. I live alone.” She gave a dry laugh. “How odd—I do believe that’s the first time I’ve ever been asked for an alibi.”

  McKenna scribbled again, then rounded on his heel to address Smoot. “And you?”

  Smoot was suddenly very still. “I can’t stop thinking about that, Lieutenant. Arthur and I had theater tickets, and I dropped by the gallery around 7:45 to pick him up. I knocked and knocked at the front door, but he didn’t answer. Finally, I got miffed and went to the play on my own.”

  “Hmm. Any sign of movement in the gallery? Noise? Lights?”