Face of the Enemy

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “Ethel?” Cabby called the Mouse’s real name. Well, she could hardly call her Mousie to her face, could she?

  But it was Marion who stepped into the kitchen, looking impossibly slim in black satin lounging pajamas and high-heeled mules. “Really, darling. I’ve been mistaken for many things, but not little Miss Ethel Furnish.” She turned up her nose. “Please!”

  “Oh—Marion.” Cabby shook her head. Why had she assumed it was Mousie? “What do you want?”

  “Well, if you must know, I wondered if Helda could spare a couple of tea bags.”

  “Won’t tea keep you awake?”

  “No, silly, the bags are for my eyes. A tea compress will make them sparkle at tomorrow’s audition.” Marion drifted over to the table. “Ooh, you’re looking at photos. I just love photos.”

  Just as Marion’s red nails grazed the thick, black page, Howie slammed his album shut. “The tea bags are over in the canister.” As the tall woman regarded him with pursed lips, he hastily gathered the albums into a pile. “Ah, thanks, Miss Ward,” he mumbled before disappearing through the butler’s pantry.

  “Somebody needs to teach that boy some manners.” Marion sneered, hands on hips.

  “Leave Howie alone,” Cabby retorted. “The kid’s all right.” She threw her dishtowel at her housemate’s head. “As long as you’re here, you might as well help me dry.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “She was a classy dame, Lieutenant. No spring chicken, but a looker.” Herman Rupp shrugged. “At least what I could see.”

  “How old?” McKenna had established that on Monday, the first, Rupp responded to a classified ad in the New York Post. A union agent, dependable and experienced with picket lines, was invited to call a certain number between noon and half past for more information. Rupp didn’t remember the number, but, no problem—Brenner could look it up in last week’s paper. The main thing, Rupp was having trouble describing the anonymous lady who’d arranged to meet him in front of the Oyster Bar at Grand Central.

  “Forty?” McKenna persisted.

  Rupp continued to shake his head. “Who can tell with broads these days—the stuff they do to themselves. She had wavy hair sticking out of this hat-veil contraption—covered one eye like Veronica Lake’s—blond, but that coulda come out of a bottle.”

  McKenna shifted on the hard bench, to ease his hip. “What else? Give me more.”

  “Okay.” Rupp squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “Nice bod. Tall. Had on heels, but barefoot she woulda been five seven, at least…And she had this way of talking. Uptown. I figured maybe she lived in a hotel or had a buncha maids.”

  “Why?”

  “She seemed used to giving orders.”

  “What’d she want you to do?”

  Rupp glanced down at the stogy that had gone out in his hand, tossed it at the nearby smoke stand. “Hey, ya see that? Bulls-eye.”

  McKenna sighed. “We ain’t got all night.”

  “Yeah…Well, she wanted some guys to picket that art gallery. Carry placards, hassle people going in. Make as much noise as we could.”

  “Right up your alley, huh?”

  “Yeah.” A smile stretched his blue-black jaws. “I could do that.”

  “Was the anti-Jap thing her idea?”

  “You bet. No Go Jap Show—she came up with that. It was part of the deal.”

  “And what was the deal?”

  “She started off with twenty-five for three days’ work. But I jewed her up to fifty. I got expenses, see?”

  “Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.” McKenna held up a finger for each day. “So, by the time Shelton called you inside, your work was almost done.”

  “The guy was waving dough in my face. You think I was gonna turn it down?”

  “No, of course not.” McKenna stood up, seemingly ready to go. “But I wonder—why’d you come back on Monday morning?”

  “Huh?” Rupp made a face like a puzzled chimpanzee.

  “Somebody threw a brick through Shelton’s front window and painted No Go Jap Show underneath.”

  “Wasn’t me,” Rupp shot back. “Or my boys.”

  McKenna nodded slowly. He believed him. “If we find the lady, we’ll have to get you over to Centre Street for a line-up.”

  Rupp nodded uncomfortably.

  McKenna buttoned his overcoat. “By the way, how’d she know you were on the job? You could’ve taken the fifty and run.”

  “She was no dummy. Came walking down Fifty-seventh that first day, swinging her purse, cool as a cucumber. But she got hot when she saw it was only me hauling the placard around. Told me I’d better get some more guys.”

  “Or what? What was she gonna do?”

  Rupp shook his head. “I don’t know. But, I’ll tell ya, boss. I didn’t think it would be healthy to cross her.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  When Louise dragged herself into the boarding house around 9:30, the girls were gathered around the console radio listening to The Inner Sanctum. Just what she needed—spooky organ music and creaking doors. But the place was warm and well-lighted, and the aroma of dinner still hung in the air. Sanctuary, that’s what the house felt like.

  All afternoon, as soon as Professor Oakley had come out of his sedative, he’d run her off her feet. She’d phoned his attorney, Rutherford Pierce, only to be informed, as Dr. Wright had predicted, that his firm did not have “the requisite expertise in civil and immigrant rights.”

  “That little shit!” Oakley burst out. “His father was my roommate at Harvard.”

  None of the attorneys Louise found in the phone book would touch what they called “an enemy alien case.” When she tried to reach Agent Bagwell, the idiot girl on the switchboard droned, “Federal agents are not accepting calls.”

  Each time Louise returned to the sickroom with bad news, the professor grew more obstreperous. Finally the nursing agency sent a suitable RN. Thank god—Louise didn’t think she could have lasted another second.

  To top it all off, exhausted and frazzled on her way home from the subway, she’d been dragging her feet down Flatbush when she tripped on a broken sidewalk in front of Kramer’s Cat’s Paw Shoe Repair and fell to her knees. By the time she staggered into the boarding house parlor and threw herself into an overstuffed armchair, she was fighting back tears.

  “Lou-lou!” Cabby cried, jumping up from the green parlor sofa. “Where have you been? What have you done to your knees.”

  Marion gave a shriek. “You look terrible! Just terrible!”

  Ruthie gasped. “What happened to your stockings?”

  Louise waved away their concern about her scrapes, swallowed a sob and dabbed at her eyes. “You won’t believe it. Mrs. Oakley, my patient’s wife…she was arrested, dragged down to Ellis Island last night and charged with being an enemy alien.”

  Cabby’s eyes took on a sudden gleam. “And you were there?”

  Louise was too distressed to notice her roommate’s avid interest. “Yes. I tried to keep the FBI out of the apartment, but they came crashing in. They just took her! It’s not right. It’s not American.”

  “Ach du lieber!” Helda, wearing her shapeless tweed coat and exuding an outdoor chill, stood in the archway that led to the butler’s pantry, flanked by a wide-eyed Howie.

  Every eye was fixed on Louise, the radio chatter forgotten in the background. “Mrs. Oakley’s just a little wisp of a thing, and we haven’t heard a word from her. The professor is deathly ill with pneumonia, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the worry kills him.”

  “Mein Gott! His wife is German?” Helda cast a frightened glance toward Howie.

  “No—not German. Japanese.”

  “A Jap,” Ruthie squealed. “Well, no wonder!” Her lips twisted in disdain. “I can’t believe you’d work for o
ne of those Japs, Louise. Don’t you care about our country?”

  “Shut up, Ruthie!” Alicia barked.

  Mousie examined Louise with a new interest.

  Louise blinked back more tears. “Um, Alicia. Could I talk to you—privately?”

  Cabby followed them out of the room

  At the bottom of the staircase, her hand on the rounded oak newel cap, Louise pivoted. “I said privately, Cabby.” There was so much at stake that for once Louise ignored the rules of Southern politeness.

  ***

  Alicia rented a single room on the third floor, a large chamber near the attic stairs, with a high peaked ceiling and two tall windows. An old divan covered with a pink chenille bedspread looked comfortable, and Louise sat down. This was the first time she’d been in Alicia’s room. Everything was shabby—a sagging bed, a badly worn carpet, a bare bulb hanging from a frayed cord. Books were everywhere, and a big oak desk between the windows was covered with notebooks and papers.

  Alicia plopped down on her mattress. “Don’t pay any attention to Ruthie—she’s so dumb she can’t see past the end of her nose. We have a saying in Yiddish, a shtik fleish mit tsvei oygn.”

  Louise looked at her, puzzled.

  “A piece of meat with two eyes.”

  Louise started laughing, and then she couldn’t stop. She howled with laughter until tears flowed. When she wiped her eyes with the bedspread, she saw that Alicia was grinning.

  “I guess that is funny,” the Jewish girl said. “I’ve been hearing it all my life—never thought how hilarious it is.” She bounced up. “Take your stockings off, Louise. Those scrapes look bad. I’ll get my first aid kit.”

  Louise pulled her skirt up and unsnapped the suspenders on her garter belt. She peeled off the ravaged hose. “Just give me the kit. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Good.” Alicia handed over the red-cross stenciled tin box. “The sight of blood makes me wanna puke.”

  Dabbing at her knees with gauze and Mercurochrome, Louise winced, but told Alicia about her frustrating search for a lawyer. “I couldn’t believe it. They all absolutely, categorically refused to represent Mrs. Oakley.”

  “Cowards!” Alicia snorted.

  “You’re studying law, Alicia. Would it help if I went down to the Federal Building and talked to someone at the FBI? Attested to Mrs. Oakley’s good character. That’s what the professor would do if he could.”

  Alicia shook her head. “Now, listen, Louise, you’re smart as hell, and you’ve got a good heart, but going to Foley Square is a waste of time. You can’t fight this on your own.” She nodded once, emphatically. “And, as it happens, I know someone who might be able to help your patient’s wife.”

  Louise looked up. “Oh, yes?”

  “The perfect person—one of my professors at Brooklyn Law. He specializes in Constitutional Law.”

  Louise clutched the bottle of antiseptic. Excitement tensed her muscles. This might be the first good news she’d heard all day. “Is your teacher…a Bolshie?”

  Alicia laughed. “Abe Pritzker would probably call himself progressive. He’s also been called a radical and a dirty fighter. The man might not be everyone’s cup of matzo-ball soup, but at least he’s never been afraid to fight abuse of power. He’s famous for it, actually. Sometimes he even wins.”

  “Oh, Alicia, do you think he’d defend Mrs. Oakley?”

  Alicia laughed. “I think a detained enemy alien would be catnip to this guy. Listen, I’ve got an early class with the Great Man himself. I’ll ask him—then I’ll call you. Where will you be?”

  “At the Oakleys’. I’ll give you the number. Call me there.”

  She rose from the divan, stretched her arms over her head. Maybe she could sleep tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Tuesday, December 9, early morning

  Even though the mattress reeked of ancient urine, Masako burrowed deeply so the other women in the cell would not hear her sobs.

  Robert? No word. Not one word. That awful Bagwell man wouldn’t give her even one scrap of news.

  Her husband was dead—she knew it. Her arrest must have killed him. Otherwise he would have come here for her—pneumonia be damned—storming past the guards, thrusting aside that nasty matron, growling like the bear he was. But so many hours. Hour after hour. No word from Robert. He was dead—she knew it.

  If only she could pour her grief out on canvas. She’d tried to slip a small case of oil paints and brushes into the bag with her toiletries, but the guard had snatched them away. Not essential, he’d snarled.

  Not essential? Cadmium Red? Yellow Ochre? Chromatic Black? Not essential? Permanent Green Light?

  How else to capture this dull winter sunrise? The gray-green harbor waves. The jagged concrete skyline. That rusted tugboat passing, gray gulls in its wake. The tumult raging within.

  She stifled a sob, tried not to breath—Robert was dead. He had died alone, without her. And what had she done to be kept from him? Nothing.

  Robert was dead, and all that was left—this dull pain in her heart. This weight of utter weariness. This blood-dark behind her eyes.

  How to express it? Should she open her veins for the color?

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The fifth-floor corridor of the Oakleys’ building was richly carpeted and lit by widely spaced brass wall sconces. The New York Times lay in neat rectangles in front of apartment doors. This morning’s dose of gloom and doom, thought Louise. No, that wasn’t fair. War news would dominate, but the Times would also contain birth announcements, weddings, news of local doings. Life went on, no matter what devastation tyrants caused.

  As Louise bent to collect the Oakleys’ paper, a door clicked open across the way. A brunette swathed in a satin negligee, hair bobby-pinned in flat spirals, was retrieving her own paper. She rewarded Louise’s “good morning” with a slammed door.

  Whew! Had the neighbor seen Masako being taken away by the Feds? Had she decided the professor and the artist were dangerous fifth columnists? Louise tucked the paper under her arm and rang the Oakleys’ bell. With luck, any hostile response to the couple wouldn’t go farther than the building.

  Kitty, the relief nurse, opened the door. Louise had taken an instant liking to the brisk, compact woman in her fifties. Last night, she’d settled in with a minimum of fuss and quelled the professor’s anxious questions with a skilful mix of firmness and sympathy.

  Now Kitty reported their patient had slept well after a moderate dose of codeine administered per Dr. Wright’s orders. “His fever is down, and I’m going to start his bath,” she continued. “He has a hundred questions waiting for you, so if you’re smart, you’ll take advantage of the lull. Make yourself some coffee. Read that paper.”

  Good advice, but it felt odd remaining in her blue wool jacket and Glen-plaid skirt instead of changing into a uniform. Odd to leave the intimate details of nursing care to someone else. To delay facing the newspaper’s inevitable bad news, Louise squeezed orange juice for the professor and brewed coffee for herself. Once she’d sat down at the scrubbed wood table, the urgent headlines screaming up from the front page threatened to knock her hard-won calm completely off balance.

  “1,500 Dead in Hawaii”

  “Hostile Planes Sighted at San Francisco”

  “Philippines Pounded”

  Louise took a sip of coffee. She closed her eyes and let the warm liquid bathe her throat. Later, I’ll read every word. Later. Right now, all she could handle was news of the city. She turned to the second section, then gave a strangled cry.

  There was Mrs. Oakley’s photograph! And: “Japanese Artist Tied to Fifty-seventh Street Murder—Miss Fumi Detained as Threat to National Security.” It got worse. Louise sat bolt upright, scanning the article furiously.

  The FBI sweep of Sunday night�
��Police sources confirm…The body of Arthur Shelton, dead several days…Avant-garde artist, who had taken the city by storm…

  The unnamed reporter noted that Shelton’s body had been propped beneath Masako’s signature painting. His clever phrasing made that into proof positive that the Japanese woman had killed the gallery owner. Who was this wrong-headed jerk, anyway? She’d have to ask Cabby. Her feisty roommate could set the guy straight.

  Kitty’s voice drifted down the hall. “No you don’t, Professor Oakley. You get back in bed, and I’ll get Nurse Hunter.”

  Louise pressed a fist to her mouth. Oh, no! The professor mustn’t see this article—not in his fragile state. He’d barely survived the arrest and not fared much better under questioning by that policeman yesterday. To see it all rehashed in the Times could kill him.

  She ran to the doorway and called, “I’ll be right there—just give me a minute.”

  Moving quickly, Louise spread the paper in the sink and emptied coffee grounds over it. She pulled the trash can out of the utility closet and buried the sodden bundle under orange rinds and other malodorous debris. Then she pressed the button to call up the dumbwaiter and sent it all down for the janitor to deal with. After flicking bits of orange off the cuffs of her white blouse, she scrubbed her hands.

  A moment later, Louise entered the sickroom with a tray bearing juice and a couple of hothouse roses in a crystal bud vase, apparently another floral offering from Professor Bridges. Kitty sent her a private smile as she slipped out to await the day nurse.

  “About time,” the professor harrumphed.

  Undeterred, Louise deposited the tray with a pleasant—she hoped—smile. “And good morning to you, too, Professor. How do you feel?”

  Oakley plucked at his bedcovers. “How do you think I feel? My wife is a prisoner, and for as much good as I can do her, I might as well be de—” He finished with a deep cough.