Face of the Enemy

by Beverle Graves Myers

  The woman sat back and patted her springy, salt-and-pepper curls. “Reporter, huh?”

  “Guilty as charged.” Cabby flashed her press card. “But, really, all I need is a quick look at the doc’s report. Ralphie always lets me take a peek.”

  The receptionist drew herself up. “Autopsy reports can only be requested by next of kin—in writing.”

  Silence reigned for several anxious seconds. Cabby could hear her heart beating against her eardrums.

  Then an inner door opened, and a balding man in a gray flannel suit came to loom over the receptionist’s desk. “Have you finished my letters, Mrs. Harding?”

  The iron maiden suddenly turned to mush. The wheels of her desk chair squeaked as she swiveled to the typewriter stand. “Two of them, sir.” Her eyes sought his approval as she handed over a manila folder. “I’ll get to the last one just as soon as I finish with this…lady.”

  After a brief glance at the letters, boss man slammed the folder on the desk top. “I said in triplicate, not duplicate.” He tore the neatly typed pages in half. “Do them again and, for god’s sake, get it right this time.”

  Mrs. Harding paled.

  Cabby waited until the man disappeared behind his door, then leaned over the desk. “Look, we’re both working girls, right? I got a boss just like that one, and he’s gonna kill me if I don’t get the story.” She smiled appealingly. “Help a girl out, whadda ya say?”

  Mrs. Harding looked her right in the eye. She stood up, smoothed her skirt, and crossed to a metal file cabinet. She returned with a single stapled document, which she placed on the desktop within Cabby’s reach. “I’m going to the ladies room for five minutes. I expect you’ll have to leave before I get back.” Then she retrieved a leather bag from her bottom drawer and walked out with head held high.

  Cabby didn’t bother with her notebook. The important stuff would glue itself to her brain. She started with the last page of the report. Manner of death: homicide. No surprise there. Cause of death: depressed skull fracture…intra-something hemorrhage…ugh! She flipped to the front page. Where was the time of death? She quickly digested a wad of medical jargon. Apparently, because Shelton’s remains had been lying on a cool terrazzo floor, his internal temperature reading may have been skewed. The best Dr. Lefevers could do was to set a span. Friday evening, which she already knew—six p.m. to ten p.m.

  Hmm, Cabby thought, as she hurried from the office, wonder if Louise can tell me where Masako Fumi was last Friday evening between six and ten.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  She was in the windowless room with Agent Bagwell again. Cigar smoke again wafted straight up, like the smoke from a factory chimney on a windless day. Behind the battered wooden desk, the man shuffled through a sheaf of papers and pulled out something Masako recognized—the brochure from her show.

  Oh, had the opening been only a week or so ago? Another life ago. Another world ago.

  “Masako Fumi, these paintings of yours—they are very…modernistical, aren’t they?” He thrust the brochure toward her.

  “I suppose you might call them that.” In the harsh fluorescent light, the colors had lost their vitality.

  “Why do they contain Japanese writing?”

  “It’s tradition. The words and the image are one. Together they give the painting its soul.”

  “Soul? Do you mean they’re part of your Shinto religion?”

  She sighed. “Everything is part of my religion. Even you, Agent Bagwell.”

  He blinked and sat back. His wooden desk chair creaked. “I don’t come into this, Miss Fumi. This is about you.” He pulled out a piece of cheap five-and-dime paper and smoothed the wrinkles. He read it silently, then looked up at Masako. “Where you live, Miss Fumi, can you see the Hudson River from your windows?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “You see ships?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Do you keep a record of them?”

  “A record?”

  “I know you know what I mean. Battleships. Troop ships. Military convoys.” He retrieved the Shelton Gallery brochure and narrowed his eyes. Tapping the reproduction of “Lion After the Kill” with a heavy finger, he looked back up at Masako.

  “It’s code, isn’t it? These Jap characters are perfect for encrypting information, aren’t they?” He sat way back and the chair creaked again. “Miss Fumi, you don’t have to tell me you’ve been spying for your father, Hisashi Fumi, Minister of Whatever—I already know.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Fifty-seventh Street, with its galleries, jewelers, and swanky restaurants, was a far cry from the Bowery, but McKenna’s talk with Herman Rupp had led him right back to the Shelton Gallery. Desmond Cox’s alibi had checked out—an all-male house party complete with amateur theatricals and drag revue—a lavender hell McKenna didn’t even want to try to imagine. But it made Mr. Cox more valuable as an informant than a suspect.

  McKenna handed him a list of names Brenner had made from the complaint letters in Shelton’s file cabinet. “You familiar with any of these ladies?”

  The gallery assistant scanned it and gave a knowing smile. “Sure. They all objected to showcasing Japanese art. Arthur showed me the letters as they came in.”

  “Oh, yeah? You know any of the gals personally?”

  “I’ve met them all—here and at Arthur’s social dos. Listen, you want some coffee? I just made it. French roast.”

  “Sure. Thanks. That would go down good.” It was blustery out, and the wind howled west to east on the midtown cross streets, straight off the Hudson. This kind of day McKenna never could get warm, despite heavy overcoat and knitted scarf. Coffee would be just the ticket, though he wasn’t quite certain what “French roast” meant. He settled onto one of the skinny chairs, trusting it would hold him.

  Cox’s coffee was hot and black and strong, and it came in a chartreuse cup that matched the settee. McKenna finished half the cup before he set it down next to his hat on the glass-topped table and leaned forward.

  “This is gonna sound like a strange question, Mr. Cox, but could any of those dames possibly remind you of Veronica Lake? Blond hair and all?”

  Desmond Cox snorted. “If you want to compare any of them to an actress, you’d do better to think along more ample lines, Marie Dressler, say.” He held up an index finger. “Except for one. Mrs. Gregory De Forest has quite a lot of style—I’m told she worked at Vogue before she married her stodgy stockbroker hubby. Tiffy is actually the one who made the nasty scene at Masako’s opening reception—along with Nigel Fairchild.”

  “Yeah.” McKenna made a note. “You told me about that. Apparently she wrote a letter to the Times, too. Complaining about Jap exhibits at the Brooklyn Museum.”

  “That’s Tiffy. But, Lieutenant…” The gallery assistant cocked his head. “You can’t possibly believe Tiffy De Forest dispatched Arthur because of Masako’s canvases. Now—someone who stole a march on her with a Paris gown, maybe…” He smiled at his own joke.

  “What about hiring the lugs who picketed the Fumi show—would Mrs. De Forest be up to that?”

  Cox thought a moment. “Hard to picture Tiffy crossing paths with men like that, but I suppose she could’ve gone slumming. Since she’s been in Fairchild’s thrall, her behavior has been erratic.”

  “Like?”

  Cox waved an airy hand. “One hears rumors—a friend of mine spotted Tiffy up in Harlem one night, staggering out of a blues club with her evening gown ripped down the bodice.”

  “Drink taken?”

  “Something taken.”

  “In Fairchild’s company?”

  “You bet.”

  McKenna made another note. He’d gone earlier to the America First headquarters on Madison Avenue for a brief word with Nigel Fairchild, but that silver-haire
d gentleman had stone-walled him.

  “Time of national crisis. Crucial decisions to be made. Yes, yes, he knew Mrs. De Forest. A thoughtful and generous supporter of the cause. Friday night? Speaking date at the Metropolis Club. Sorry. Sorry. Phone’s ringing. Long distance call. National headquarters. Sorry.”

  And an inner door closed behind him.

  On a bulletin board in the reception area, a flyer bearing Fairchild’s smiling mug backed up the dinner-speaker claim. McKenna would get back to him later, anyhow. Make him sweat.

  Now he picked up the chartreuse cup, but held off drinking. “Okay, Mr. Cox. New topic. You notice any cracks in your boss’ relationship with Lawrence Smoot?”

  The gallery assistant’s cup rattled against the saucer, sloshing coffee on the table-top. After some furious mopping with a brilliantly white handkerchief, Cox answered, “They seemed the same as ever. Lawrence besotted with Arthur, and Arthur using him for all he could get.”

  McKenna nodded. “That’s how it was, huh?”

  Cox shrugged. “That’s the view from here. Lawrence had a multitude of contacts in the Asian art community. Of course, Lawrence did more for Arthur than make a few introductions.”

  “Go on.” McKenna sipped at his coffee, watching Cox closely.

  “How do you think a middle-class boy from Indiana managed to afford all this?” Cox made one of his dramatic gestures. “Lawrence came up with a loan. Seed money, he called it.”

  “How many seeds we talking about?”

  “Twenty grand.”

  McKenna plunked his cup down. “I haven’t seen any paperwork on that deal.”

  “You wouldn’t have—it was purely a gentleman’s agreement. I only heard about it in snips and snatches.” Cox crossed one leg over the other and settled more deeply into the settee. “I find it pays to keep my ears open.”

  “You coulda told me about this yesterday.” And so could Professor Smoot, McKenna thought to himself.

  “Ah. But, Lieutenant, you didn’t ask.”

  McKenna stood up, reached for his hat. “Okay, one more thing. Brenner says you two inventoried the gallery stock and found one missing item?”

  “You mean, besides the Fumi paintings the G-men hauled away?” Cox followed the question with a snide grin.

  McKenna gritted his teeth. He didn’t like to be reminded that the damn Feds had gotten their way. Again. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

  Desmond Cox rolled his skinny shoulders, amused.

  This guy needs a good haircut and maybe a slap in the puss, McKenna thought. The coffee that had gone down smoothly now left a bitter taste in his throat.

  “There’s only one thing I can’t account for—an antique Japanese brush pot. Jade. Arthur was about to send it to a collector in San Francisco, so he probably mailed it off. But, funny thing, the postage isn’t noted in the expense roster. Arthur was meticulous about that sort of detail.”

  Jade. Brush. Pot. McKenna wrote, then looked up from his notebook. “Would it have gone in a box about so big?” He spread his hands to indicate the small wooden packing crate they’d found in the gallery trash. The one with traces of blood.

  “Yeah,” the gallery assistant said. “That’s it.”

  Bingo.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was lunch hour, and the crowded elevator stopped at each floor of the Times building. Cabby barely noticed that she was squeezed between a cigar-puffing sports editor in a checked jacket and a scrawny copy boy with bad teeth whose hands wouldn’t stay where they belonged. She was strategizing.

  Her scrap of information about the time of death was something, but not near enough to wow Halper. To top her article in this morning’s edition, she needed more.

  She needed Louise.

  Her roommate had found herself right in the middle of Masako Fumi Oakley’s arrest Sunday night. She probably even had inside dope on the Shelton murder; after all, the gallery owner had been killed while dismantling Mrs. Oakley’s art show. But Louise had avoided her last night and this morning, suddenly becoming chummy with Alicia. How could she get Louise to tell all? Really spill it? That girl could be so maddening, using the Southern drawl everyone found so charming to gush on and on, hiding more than she revealed.

  Cabby inched away from copy boy’s roving hands and waved Cuban smoke from in front of her face. Besides, could she use her roommate like that? Should she? Oh, she wanted another feature story so bad she could almost taste it—like a Coney Island hot dog with sauerkraut and mustard dangling just out of reach…But Louise was so…exasperating—she probably wouldn’t tell Cabby anything.

  When the doors popped opened on the great Gothic lobby, Cabby made sure to step on checked sportcoat’s toes and gave the creep with the hands her well-practiced elbow jab, taking keen pleasure in his anguish. Then she launched herself into the stream of hungry workers heading toward the brass-framed revolving doors that would deposit them on Forty-third Street.

  She’d almost reached those doors when she saw, from the back, a slender figure in a fashionable camel-hair swing coat with padded shoulders. Cabby stopped short. She knew that coat. Surely that was…

  She rushed up, grabbed the woman by the arm, and spun her around.

  “What the—” All big blue eyes and outrage. Then, “Cabby?”

  “Louise! I was just thinking about you!” Cabby grabbed her roommate’s hand and frowned. “What on earth are you doing here?” She took a second look—what on earth had happened to Louise? Despite the swanky coat, she looked bad—blotchy cheeks, lusterless pompadour sagging over her forehead, her lipstick—well, how on earth could a girl go out with no lipstick?

  But Louise clearly had a set purpose in seeking her out. “Listen, Cabby, the reporter who wrote that article about the murder of Masako Oakley’s art dealer? I’ve got to set him straight. He makes Mrs. Oakley look like a killer. Why did he have to put in that bit about the body being found beneath her painting?” She shuddered. “Who is this guy? I’m gonna give him the what-for. Can you put me in touch with him?”

  Oh, shit! Cabby swallowed hard and patted her roommate’s arm. “You look like you could use a good, hot lunch, Lou-lou. How about we talk at the Automat?”

  “But—”

  Cabby inserted her arm into Louise’s and urged her toward the huge revolving doors. “Shh, shh, let’s get some food first. You look like you’re at your wits’ end.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The cold air hit Louise with the force of a Mack truck. This was the New York winter she’d been warned about. She shivered and pulled her coat tighter, but when she turned onto Broadway with Cabby, the bustling scene momentarily made her forget she was freezing.

  Times Square had mobilized for war. Flags flew from every lamppost and window, the red, white, and blue a patriotic counterpart to the Christmas decorations and the garish signs. Some plate-glass windows had already been crisscrossed with tape to withstand damage from possible air attacks. On the corner, a Salvation Army band played “Silent Night.” Louise could barely hear the gentle carol above the din of idling motors, blaring taxi horns, and vendors shouting their wares: “Chestnuts! Roasted chestnuts!”

  For two cents, Louise would head for the subway and Brooklyn. She was suddenly too tired to contend with the pushy pedestrians gazing up to check the war news on the electric zipper or shoving through the crowds to Christmas shop while the stores still had goods to sell. But she had to talk to Cabby, and then Professor Oakley was counting on her to meet Alicia’s law professor at four o’clock. She forced her heavy feet to keep up with the younger woman’s strides.

  The large red sign just ahead on Broadway announced: Horn & Hardart. Cabby elbowed past a lady in a fox stole and pushed into the Automat. Louise followed more slowly, gaping at the opulently decorated restaurant with its glass-fronted revolving food
dispensers. A far cry from the friendly hash slingers behind the steam tables at the Blue Boar Cafeteria back home. And what was that wonderful aroma? Coffee, yes, but also baked beans and chicken and beef stew and…Suddenly starving, she took out her change purse and got busy. Soon Louise and Cabby each had a chicken pot-pie on a tray, and Cabby had added a slice of pumpkin pie. Louise held her ceramic mug under a shiny dolphin’s-mouth spout. A nickel dropped in the slot produced a flow of steaming coffee.

  Cabby slapped her tray on the first empty table and sat down. “Good,” she said, “we don’t have to share with some stranger.”

  Louise spread the paper napkin on her lap and got right to the point. “So what’s the name of the reporter who wrote that horrible article?” She broke the crust of the pot-pie with her fork. Steam poured out and sauce oozed through the break in the pastry. Suddenly she was eating as if it were her first meal in a week. “You’ve got to write a story, to set the record straight—”

  “Whoa, sister. One thing at a time.” Cabby had started with her pumpkin pie. Her fork paused. “I’ve got some questions for you.”

  Louise drew a protesting breath, but Cabby mouthed on, “I’ve been dying to hear more about Mrs. Oakley’s arrest. You fell asleep so fast last night, I didn’t get a chance to ask you.”

  “Well, it was terrible. The G-men were brutes. My shoulder’s still bruised from when they shoved me into the wall.”

  Cabby’s fingers itched to get out her pad and pencil, but she knew nothing would shut Louise up faster than if she started taking notes. She’d just have to remember. “Did the agents find anything particularly interesting?”

  Louise spoke between bites. “Hard to tell. It all happened so fast, and my patient went into shock. I was afraid I was going to lose him then and there. But this morning, I spent over an hour making notes on what we could both recall about the arrest.” Louise hefted her purse from the empty chair beside her, pulled out a white, string-tied envelope, and tapped it with her finger. “It’s all right here. Every question the agents asked. Every journal they took. Every item and photograph.”