Face of the Enemy

by Beverle Graves Myers

  She and her roommate had barely spoken since the air raid drill in Times Square. Was it only because of their argument that the nurse was giving her the deep freeze? Could she suspect…No—Cabby thought not. If she was any judge of character, Louise had weightier problems on her mind than lost notes. First, she’d missed dinner, and it was Tuesday, German chocolate cake night. Now, it seemed, Louise had fallen into an exhausted sleep within seconds.

  Cabby had qualms about what she planned to do, but, dammit, she was a journalist. It was wartime and the public deserved to know about enemies in their midst. Cabby had a feeling this story was going to be a doozy, well worth a boat load of sacrifice. Even friendly relations with her roommate.

  Down in the parlor the other girls were listening to the radio and talking. When the Kay Kyser Orchestra came on with “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition,” the idle chatter stopped and Cabby’s housemates sang along. Nonetheless, Cabby waited until they’d all gone to bed and the house was silent before she tiptoed across the room.

  Slipping down the back staircase into the kitchen, Cabby laid her supplies out on the table: notepad, bottle of ink, fountain pen, and her roommate’s notes. She couldn’t do much with the murder angle until she talked to McKenna again, so she focused on Masako Fumi Oakley’s arrest and detention. She detailed the G-men’s questions that Louise had transcribed, also the exhaustive search of the Oakley apartment. She concluded with the agents’ apparent interest in the Japanese characters scattered through the artist’s sketchbooks and paintings.

  There. Finished. Cabby would go into the office early, type the piece up, and get it to Halper by nine.

  She crept up the backstairs of the now silent house, donned her green-plaid flannel pajamas, and went to bed across from a steadily snoring Louise.

  Nothing was more important than getting the story. Right?

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Wednesday, December 10, before dawn

  It got worse and worse every time they brought her to this windowless place of cigar smoke and florescent lights and scritch, scritch. The matron had awakened her and led her down darkened corridors. She was exhausted and numb, as though moving through an anesthetic haze.

  “Miss Fumi, do you know that Arthur Shelton is dead?” Agent Bagwell eyed her, as a cobra watches a mouse.

  “Dead? Arthur?” Not Robert? “Last time I saw Arthur, he was in perfect health.”

  The FBI man moved around the desk. He hung over her. His body smelled of meat. Sickening.

  “Did you kill him?” He poked a stubby finger in her face.

  Kill him? She couldn’t be hearing him right. First she was some sort of spy? Now a killer?

  “Look at me, Miss Fumi.” Bagwell straightened as she mechanically complied. “The New York City Police think you had a very good reason to kill Arthur Shelton.”

  Masako’s hand went to her forehead. “I don’t understand.”

  “He was closing down your gallery show. You saw that as a betrayal.” Bagwell pronounced the word with relish.

  She tried to gather her thoughts. Her show—her solo show—she’d been thrilled, but now it held little meaning. “Not a betrayal. I was upset—over everything. Just upset.”

  “Upset? Enraged is more like it.” But, then, suddenly, Agent Bagwell went back to sit behind the desk. The deep lines etched by his mouth squared as he attempted a smile. If she were to paint that smile, she would compose it in right angles. “I could be your friend, you know.”

  You are lying. She didn’t think she said it aloud. “My…friend?”

  “You bet. The New York City police are convinced that you murdered Arthur Shelton. They intend to arrest you for homicide, but you’re safe as long as you’re in our custody. Don’t you see?”

  Masako touched slim fingers to her eyes. She yearned suddenly to be invisible.

  “Don’t you see?” he repeated. “The police will convict you and send you to the electric chair. You’ll fry like bacon on a griddle.”

  See? She saw nothing. She tried not to see him. She imagined a thick pane of frosted glass before her eyes.

  “But I could arrange it so that you can go home.”

  “Home!” The frosted glass melted. To see Robert. To care for him. She would do anything this man wanted. “Home!”

  “Yes,” he said. “Home. If you tell us what we need to know, we can see that you get safely back to Tokyo. I’m sure your father would be thrilled to have you home, safe and sound.” He attempted another bracketed smile.

  Not home, then. The man knew nothing about home. She would slit her wrists rather than return to Japan—even in peaceful times. Her father…

  Bagwell watched her, his gray eyes reflecting nothing. Especially not her image. He did not need to see her, she thought. The man without a soul already knew what she looked like. She looked like the enemy.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “Where’s Cabby?” Alicia asked, pulling out a chair at the boarding-house table and glancing around. “She’s never been one to miss a meal.”

  Louise shrugged. “When I woke up she was already gone.” All the other girls were present, even Marion, who seldom graced them with her presence at breakfast. The house smelled deliciously of sausages, but everyone seemed slightly out-of-sorts. Even Ruthie was scowling as if she had weighty matters on her mind.

  “Cabby musta left real early,” she said. “For once I didn’t have to fight her for the bathroom.” She craned her neck to stare toward the kitchen. “But what I want to know is—where’s breakfast?”

  It was ten minutes after eight, late for the ever-punctual Helda. Bleary-eyed, Louise—who’d slept almost twelve straight hours but still didn’t feel rested—stared across the dining room at three grim etchings over the cold fireplace. A brace of dead rabbits, mountain crags with wispy-bearded goats, a stag at bay. Great—truly appetizing. Helda’s taste in home décor was Germanic, to say the least, heavy with oak and crewel and outdoor grotesquerie.

  And this morning Helda’s décor matched Louise’s mood. Her mother had phoned last night—Ben and Ted had gone down to the Navy office. They’d soon be in the thick of it.

  Louise had been raised with the belief that her country was always in the right, and that every citizen should rally to its defense. But, her baby brothers in uniform, toting rifles! Shooting at people! Louise could hardly bear to think about it. And how could America be right when its own agents were mistreating a woman who had absolutely nothing to do with the attack on Hawaii?

  Cabby was another concern. Was her roommate sore over being described as—what had Louise called her? “An unpleasant career girl.” Louise rubbed her forehead, stung by the memory of her own words. Just because she was in New York now didn’t mean she should forget she was a lady. She’d have to apologize for that remark. Definitely.

  Then maybe she could persuade Cabby to write a story more partial to Masako.

  But could her roommate persuade that crotchety editor she always griped about to publish it?

  Louise sipped from the glass of juice on the plate in front of her. Her lips puckered. Her whole mouth puckered. Pineapple, canned and acidic. Well, what did she expect? Fresh pineapple in New York in December? She set the glass down. Later she’d pour the juice into the big spider plant by the upright piano. Maybe it would kill the ugly thing.

  She had just reached for one of the crusty little rolls Helda called brotchen, when the butler’s pantry door flew open and Howie hefted in a platter of pale German sausages. He slapped it down on the long table with a dissonant clunk. The boy’s face was like a storm cloud, and he slouched back into the kitchen without a word.

  “What’s the matter with our little Hansel?” Ruthie asked, reaching for the serving fork and spearing two plump sausages. She smiled for the first time that morning. “Oh, yummy! But I’ll
have to live on black coffee and cigarettes for the rest of the week—this is gonna go right to my boombassadie!”

  Howie was back with a bowl of scrambled eggs, which he plunked down on the table before stomping out again.

  Marion studied the sausages and chose the smallest one. “I’ve never seen that kid in such a foul mood. What’s going on with him?”

  It was quiet Mousie who ventured an opinion. “Boys that age,” she said vaguely. “You know…” Her beady black eyes were fixed on the closed pantry door.

  A loud clang came from outside. Something shook the dining-room wall. Everyone startled, and Ruthie gave a little shriek.

  Alicia ran to the window. “The coal truck, ladies, only the coal truck.” Coal clunked down the chute to the basement bin.

  Whew! Louise thought, as her heart rate slowed, everyone’s so jumpy.

  Helda entered through the butler’s pantry with a pot of coffee. “I hope that boy was not rude.” She filled their cups. “I don’t know what is wrong with him. He snap and snarl ever since that police bring him home!” She left the room, muttering to herself in German.

  Loading their plates, the boarders seemed to forget all about Howie. Ruthie was wearing a new blouse, sheer white nylon over a black slip. Louise thought it made her look cheap. But the stenographer got right to the point of what was on everyone’s mind. “This war is gonna be so hard on all of us.” She paused to reach for another sausage.

  Alicia glanced at her with surprise. It wasn’t like Ruthie to be so astute. “You’re right,” she said. “Like everyone else, Howie’s already feeling the strain. Once Hitler finally declares war on us, things could get even worse.”

  “Cabby and I got a taste of it yesterday,” Louise said. “We were coming out of the Automat, and suddenly the world went crazy. Sirens. Horns. Men yelling. It was deafening. I couldn’t breathe. It went on and on. I thought it was a real air raid, bombs and all.”

  “I’m not talking about that kind of stuff, silly!” Ruthie shook her head, annoyed. “What I mean,” she clarified, “is—at Gimbels they already limited stockings to three pairs per customer. You shoulda seen the ladies lined up five deep at the counters yesterday. I spent half my lunch hour waiting!”

  Alicia leaned over toward Louise. Sotto voce, she said, “That girl has the IQ of a bagel.”

  Surprisingly, Mousie spoke up again, looking directly at Ruthie. “Yesterday at Macy’s women were storming my counter for brassieres, too. It’s really not right, you know. That’s hoarding and the government has asked us not to do it.”

  Ruthie’s mouth fell open. “Do you mean to tell me that you work in ladies undergarments and you’re not putting brassieres and girdles aside for the duration?”

  “Of course not! Rubber goes into gas masks and lifeboats—planes and tanks, too. The troops need rubber worse than we do—that’s why it’s going to be rationed soon.” No one at the table had ever heard so many words from Mousie at one time. Miss Goody-Two-Shoes.

  Helda, entering with a fresh pot of coffee, sank down into Cabby’s empty chair. “Ach du lieber—no rubber! That means no corsets. It’s just not healthy, no corset—our wombs will fall.” The landlady cast a sideways look at Howie, who’d come in behind her and was emptying the waste baskets.

  “That’s not true,” Louise said, trying to hide her growing irritation. “Girdles aren’t good for you. They displace your internal organs. And then, your abdominal muscles—”

  “Oh, Louise, you think you know everything,” Ruthie interrupted. “In home-ec they told us—”

  As she buttered a crusty roll, Alicia rolled her eyes at Louise. “She should have paid closer attention in home-ec,” she muttered. “Those sausages are sheer fat—they’re going to stay on her boombasadie forever.”

  “But what are we going to do about stockings!” Ruthie moaned. “Men go crazy for my legs. I need those stockings. I figure I’ve only got two or three years left to snag a rich husband, and my gams are my best feature.”

  “Don’t worry, Ruthie,” Marion was saying as she glanced through a newspaper. “My friend at Foley Square says there’ll always be stockings for girls who know how to get them.”

  Louise stopped eating and shifted in her chair. What was wrong with these women? Didn’t they have brothers? Sweethearts? Wasn’t the war real to them? The young nurse shuddered.

  Alicia noticed her discomfort and placed a hand on her arm.

  Louise scooted her chair back, pulling away from Alicia. That was it! “Goddammit all to hell!” She snatched a surprised breath—unlike these New Yorkers, she wasn’t used to using curse words—then she jumped up and slammed the palm of her hand flat against the table.

  The women jerked in their seats. Even Howie stared at her wide-eyed.

  “That’s enough about stockings!” Louise snapped. “You want to talk about wartime sacrifice? My twin brothers just joined the Navy—they could have their ship blown out from under them. That’s sacrifice.”

  Marion lowered her paper and pursed her lips. “Well, re-e-e-e-ly, you don’t have to throw such a hizzy. We’re perfectly capable of worrying about our boys and our stockings at the same time. How old are your brothers, anyway?” She smirked. “I do hope they’re older than twelve.”

  “What do you mean?” Louise’s anger turned to puzzlement.

  Marion stabbed a red fingernail at her tabloid newspaper, the Daily Mirror. “I just read this little article. Seems they not only have child brides in the wilds of Kentucky, but child soldiers, too.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Ruthie said.

  “Not at all. Some yokel recruiter’s been signing up boys just out of grammar school.”

  Louise’s shoulders dropped. She’d had to endure so much ribbing about being from Kentucky. “Are you a hillbilly? Did you wear shoes to school?” She sank down in her chair. “That must be in the mountains—they’re still pretty backward in those isolated small towns.”

  Jane Willis, one of the older boarders, rose with the Times tucked under her arm. In her quiet way, she took the floor. “Don’t let our Marion needle you, Louise. You must be strong for your parents’ sake. It’s not easy, having a boy overseas, much less twins.”

  Helda agreed with an emphatic nod and drifted over to squeeze her son’s shoulders.

  Howie scowled.

  Chapter Forty

  “Who’s your source for this piece?” Halper barked, grinding out his smoke in a half-filled ashtray. He peered at Cabby over the tops of wire-rimmed glasses. In spite of the splotch of dried egg on his chin, the editor had the daunting authority of a hanging judge in a one-horse Western town.

  She handed him the pages of Louise’s neat penmanship. “Someone who was there at the time and took notes.”

  Halper didn’t smile. This wasn’t going the way Cabby had anticipated. She felt her stomach tighten. The nickel doughnut she’d had for breakfast wasn’t sitting well. Usually she thrilled in the noisy ebullience of the newsroom, typewriters clacking, phones ringing, teletypes clattering, men shouting “Copy!” But a fierce headache had crept up on her, and, between the morning tumult and the thickening fog of cigarette smoke, she felt as if she might throw up.

  The editor ran his eyes over the notes with the speed of a brand-new Pontiac roadster, and then handed the papers back to her. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Confidential source.” She slipped the folded bundle into her purse. So confidential she doesn’t even know about it.

  “Confidential, huh?” His blubbery lips went in and then out. “Look, Ward, nothing is confidential from me—I’m the guy the shit’s gonna fall on if anything’s phony about this story. Who’s your source?” He held her typed article up with a thumb and forefinger on each corner and twisted it as if he were about to tear the page in two right down the middle. Cabby could almost hear the ri
pping sound.

  Her hands flew up to her face. “No. Don’t! It was Professor Oakley’s private-duty nurse.” He tossed the page down, tapped another Camel out of its packet, and lit it with a tarnished silver lighter. “His nurse, huh? She was there when Fumi was arrested?”

  “Oh, yes.” Cabby nodded like a wobbly headed carnival doll. “This is a totally accurate account. Straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “And this nurse?” Halper looked up as nosy Bud Smallwood slouched in and sat at the desk adjacent to him in the U-formation that made up the City-room hierarchy. “What’s her name?”

  The editor had lowered his voice, but Cabby could sense Bud’s ears flapping. She swallowed, then whispered, “Louise. Louise Hunter. My roommate.”

  “I see. And why did Nurse Hunter give you these notes?”

  “Oh, she didn’t.” It was out of her mouth before she knew it.

  “She didn’t, huh.” He scowled. “Does she know you have them?”

  She hung her head. “No.” It was another whisper.

  “You’re off the Fumi story, Ward.”

  She choked out a hoarse “Yes, sir.”

  Swiveling around in his oak desk chair, her editor exhaled a steady stream of smoke and stared out the soot-coated window. Cabby stared, too. Gray, heavy skies. Looked like snow. Halper swiveled back and tore her article into tiny pieces.

  He shook his head slowly. “Didn’t they teach ethics in your journalism class, Miss Ward?”

  She opened her mouth, but he didn’t wait for a response. Leaning forward, he said, “You’re a good little hustler, sweetie, and I like your work, so I’m not gonna fire you. Yet. But you’re skating on thin ice here. I don’t want to see this kind of shoddy reporting again. You understand?”

  Shoddy? The word was like a knife in the heart, but she nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Halper.”