She had too much at stake now to allow Ernst Schroeder access to her home. The boarding house, finally paying its way. Her papers filed to become a citizen one day. An American! She wouldn’t let him ruin any of that.
And, of course, she must keep Ernst away from Howie. He must never know his father had returned. Four years now since her husband had put the interests of der Vaterland above those of his son. Well, then, he’d made his choice. Let him live with it.
She straightened her shoulders, resolute.
He must have been waiting in the bushes, for he grabbed her from behind and spun her toward him, his hand over her mouth to prevent a scream. “Not a word, Helda.” Ernst spoke in German. “Not the slightest sound. If I am caught, it is over for me. You understand?”
She nodded, her heart thudding like the engine on the train that used to carry them out to Camp Siegfried.
Slowly he released his hand, allowed her to breathe. His expression, as he stared into her eyes, was intense and ambiguous, at once aloof and needy.
Mein Gott, Helda thought, he wants me still to love him.
The years back in Germany had not been unkind to Herr Ernst Schroeder, true believer in the Reich. Still tall and straight, and more fit than ever, he had retained his Teutonic good looks, the blond hair unsprinkled with white, the blue eyes still deep and compelling.
After months of arguments, he had deserted her without a word, left his son to worry and grieve. He had not provided for them. For all he knew, they could now be destitute. And he dared to come to her with that look in his eyes!
She pulled away, crossing her arms over her chest, and waited.
He sighed and stepped back. “You hate me.”
“What do you want?”
His stance stiffened. “I want to see my son.”
“Nein.” She glared at him. “Nein. Nein. Nein. Nein.”
“He is my son. I have the right.” Ernst towered over her. Even in the dimness, she could see he was dressed like any American—tan trench coat, creased trousers, good shoes.
“He is tucked up in bed, safe and sound, like a boy his age should be. You will not disturb him.”
“He is mine!” Ernst moved to brush past her.
She shoved him with all her strength, and, caught off guard, he stumbled into a leafless lilac bush. “You,” she said, “a lot you cared for him when you and your Bund friends sailed back to Germany with who knows what wicked purpose in mind!”
“Der Vaterland!” he cried. As if that one word made his priorities self-evident.
“Der Vaterland,” she spit out. “What is that compared to your son? Your family? That you should throw us over to enlist in service to its cause? Hitler’s cause!”
“No more talking! It is my destiny.” He threw his shoulders back. “And I will have my son.”
She glared at him, feeling only contempt. “You think I don’t see your game? Now that Howie is getting big, you want to recruit him for der Fuhrer—nein?” This was no longer the man she’d married. “Howie is an American. He stays here, where he belongs.”
Ernst grabbed her arms. “He is a German—”
“You take one step toward the house,” she said, “and I will call the police.”
His grip tightened.
“I will scream.”
He stood there, staring at her, as if in calculation. Then he spun her away from him, turned on his heel and stalked off. She followed him with her eyes until he passed under the corner streetlight and vanished down the sidewalk. She continued standing in the dark night, watching the spot where he no longer was.
If you make one move to recruit my son, she thought, I will kill you.
Chapter Fifty-two
Ri-i-i-ing! Strident, off-pitch, unstopping.
Head emerging from a pillow sandwich, Cabby moaned. It couldn’t be morning already! But her alarm wasn’t lying; the bedside clock’s glow-in-the-dark hands spanned a wide angle between seven and twelve. Cabby silenced the noisy beast, rubbed her eyes and yawned. A headache made itself known, a dull pounding behind her brow. No wonder. She’d spent half the night dreaming about the burly man in the gray suit chasing her down nightmare alleys. She couldn’t imagine what had gotten into her, challenging Fairchild as she had. It wasn’t until she was on the subway, feet planted wide as she hung onto the porcelain handle and swayed back and forth, that she began looking over her shoulder. The stations roared past the windows one after the other like lighted rooms in a world of darkness, and she had far too much time to think about the possible consequences of her rash question. After they crossed over into Brooklyn and the crowd thinned, she began to relax. No burly henchman in gray to be seen anywhere.
Now, without switching on the lamp, Cabby eased her toes toward the cold floor to search for her flannel slippers. There, one foot warm, at least. Now, the other…
Light flooded the room, and she squealed. “Lou-lou! Good god, what are you doing here?”
Her roommate, whose honey-colored hair was wound around metal curlers, pushed up on one elbow. “I live here, remember.”
Louise’s flannel nightgown reminded Cabby of something her mother might wear. Strike that—something her mother might wear if she were a cloistered nun in an Arctic climate.
Cabby said, “You weren’t here when I went to bed.”
“I got in late.” Louise swung her feet to the floor, grabbed a pink chenille robe, and lumbered over to her dresser. “You were snoring to beat the band.”
She had been lying awake since five, replaying yesterday’s double whammy: McKenna’s revelation, and, even more shocking…Abe’s kiss.
Louise turned her back on Cabby and gave her reflection in the dresser mirror a long look. More shocking, and, yes, to be honest, quite thrilling. What had he said? Intelligence and determination. Sure, sure. But…what else? Her…magnolia…beauty? She chastised herself—she shouldn’t be so vain! But what else? He felt…what? He…couldn’t keep his hands off her? Louise shivered with unholy delight.
Cabby shivered, too, as she watched her roommate rummage around for soap and washcloth. Helda was generous with their meals, but the landlady sure was a miser when it came to coal. Was it only the bedroom’s chill that had turned Louise’s expression as opaque as the East River at midnight?
Cabby hadn’t seen her roommate since their argument at the Automat. She didn’t like the way they’d left things. Apparently Louise didn’t, either, because she wasn’t snapping at her. Maybe the girl wasn’t so bad. She hadn’t caved in to her mother’s demands that she scoot on home like a frightened rabbit—and she sure was showing a lot of gumption defending a Japanese woman when most New Yorkers would just as soon throw that dragon lady off the Brooklyn Bridge.
Cabby realized she didn’t want Louise mad at her.
“Ah, Lou…er, Louise.” She pulled on her own robe. “I was just surprised to see you because I thought you’d still be at work. Your patient didn’t…die, did he?”
“No—thank god. He’s holding his own, but barely. Dr. Wright arranged for a relief nurse to cover my shifts. He thinks I can be of more use to Professor Oakley by helping free his wife.”
“Real-l-ly? That’s swell, but can your pocketbook take the punch?”
“I’m actually still getting paid, working with…the lawyer and all.” Louise flushed.
Cabby’s sharp eye caught the sudden rosiness of her roommate’s cheeks.
“Not that I intend to share any details with you,” Louise said with a straight look, “not unless I want to read all about it in the New York Times.” She tossed a hairbrush in her bag and headed for the bathroom down the hall.
Whew! Cabby scampered to the door and watched as her roommate’s pink-flowered back passed Marion’s room and disappeared around the corner. Okay, Louise was still mad as hell. Maybe, just maybe, she did suspe
ct Cabby of lifting the Oakley notes. She stared at the ceiling, rubbing her sleep-crushed curls. A soap opera heroine from one of her mother’s radio shows would come clean and beg forgiveness on bended knee. Should she?
“Nah!” Cabby blurted out loud. Halper’d already given her enough grief to last a lifetime. No need to invite a tongue lashing from Louise. She’d just sneak the notes back into her roommate’s purse.
No, into her coat pocket.
After one more glance down the empty corridor, Cabby closed the door, dug the envelope out of her bag and fetched Louise’s swing coat from the tall stand in the corner. She’d tear the pocket lining and stuff the envelope in as if it had dropped through. Genius!
When the door burst open, Cabby had Louise’s coat spread out on her bed. “Lou-lou!” she cried, making a frantic bid to stash the envelope under her robe.
Louise recognized the thick envelope with its dog-eared corners. Abandoning her forgotten shampoo bottle, she crossed the worn carpet between them. “Oh,” she breathed. “You! I should have known.”
Cabby braced herself for the inevitable: anger, outrage, even hysteria. Surely Louise would demand a new roommate. She was amazed to see only a look of reproach on the nurse’s face.
Louise spoke slowly. “Do you realize how hard it was to reconstruct those notes?”
Cabby shook her head, “I’m sorry,” she stammered, “really sorry. I…borrowed…them to write a follow-up article. But when my editor found out I’d…taken…the notes without your permission, he almost canned me.” Cabby thrust the envelope into Louise’s hand. “It was…shoddy. Just a shoddy, rotten thing to do…” A decisive nod. “Believe me, you don’t have to worry about anything like this happening again. That’s a promise.”
Okay, she thought, it’s all out in the open now.
Louise tossed the envelope on her rumpled bed. These notes had been so important only a day ago. Now…
Suddenly she was aware of Cabby’s pleading eyes. Louise had no idea what big city newspaper editors looked like, but an image from the movies streaked across her brain—the overambitious reporter catching hell from a gruff man in suspenders and a green eyeshade. Well, maybe Cabby’s repentance over the theft of the notes would make her think twice before trying another stunt like that.
“Forget it, roommate.” Louise managed a tight smile. “Water under the bridge.”
Cabby felt an invisible weight lift off her shoulders. She decided another olive branch was in order. “Listen, last night I found out something that might get your Jap lady…er…Mrs. Oakley…off the hook.” She told Louise about Nigel Fairchild’s absence from his scheduled speaking date the night of the Shelton murder. “And that in itself wouldn’t mean anything except that he hates Japs. Also, he mentioned having been at Mrs. Oakley’s gallery opening, and how ‘shameful’ he thought it was for Shelton to mount that show.”
“Is that so?” Louise immediately latched onto the implications of Cabby’s news. Her instincts were right after all. Masako may have been on the scene, but someone else killed Shelton.
She grabbed her roommate by the shoulders. “Cabby, have you told Lieutenant McKenna?”
Cabby shrank back. “Well, no. I haven’t had a—”
Louise let go. “You better—after that dirty trick you pulled, you owe me. Call him right now. If you don’t, I will—”
“Hold your horses, girlie. I just woke up.” She was torn—Halper had ordered her away from Shelton’s murder, but Fairchild was a different matter. What the hell! She’d tell McKenna. She didn’t have to write anything up unless her information actually led to Fairchild’s arrest. Halper couldn’t fault her for keeping an eye on the old America Firster—he’d handed her the Fairchild assignment, for cripe’s sake.
“Cabby…” Louise’s gaze threatened to burn a hole in the air between them.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll call police headquarters right after breakfast.” Cabby’s insides squirmed as she recalled the number of times McKenna’s secretary had refused to put her through. “Better yet, I’ll track the man down and tell him in person.”
“Girls!” Alicia Rosen appeared at their open door, breathless and wide-eyed. She was only half-dressed, cardigan sweater smashed under her arm and black hair straggling down her back. “Howie’s disappeared! He’s gone!”
Louise and Cabby traded shocked looks. “What do you mean, gone?” Cabby asked.
“He just disappeared—sometime in the middle of the night. Helda’s a wreck. Cabby, he talks to you. You know anything about this?”
Before Cabby could respond, Louise interrupted. “I’ll bet he’s trying to enlist again, somewhere farther afield. Maybe Manhattan. But Helda shouldn’t worry. No recruiter in his right mind would believe Howie’s eighteen. They’ll send him right home—just like last time.”
Cabby had sunk to the edge of Louise’s bed, face buried in her hands.
“What’s with you?” Alicia’s question took on a suspicious tone.
Cabby swallowed hard. Those photograph albums! Howie’s preoccupation with his father. “I don’t know if it means anything…”
She paused. Howie hadn’t sworn her to secrecy…A cold fist tightened around her heart. But he was only a kid, damn it, and there was a war on. Could he have lit out to track down his German dad? Sheesh, she wouldn’t put it past him! Boy, oh, boy! He could end up in big trouble. Up in Yorkville, where the German immigrants lived, beer hall windows had been smashed and strudel bakery signs had been scrawled over with swastikas. In these flammable days, violence could crop up anywhere. And, then, of course, there were the Feds…
Yes, Cabby realized she had to tell Helda what little she knew, and that prospect made her feel sick at heart, sicker than anything else had since the dreadful day of Pearl Harbor.
Chapter Fifty-three
Abe Pritzker’s big voice came over the telephone wire louder than life. “You got ten minutes to get ready, Louise. We’re going back to Ellis Island.”
“We are?” Louise stood at the phone in the upstairs hall, still unbathed and in her pink chenille robe.
Her caller slammed down the receiver. Right ear ringing, Louise hurried to throw on a wool skirt and a cashmere sweater set. She was dabbing on some lipstick just as a car horn began to blare. Damn that man! It would only take two minutes for him to come to the door like a proper gentleman. She grabbed her coat and a thick red wool scarf that belonged to Cabby—who’d gone to the kitchen to console a distraught Helda—and ran downstairs and outside.
Abe’s gray sedan was at the curb, passenger door swinging open. Louise jumped in. As Abe pulled away, shifting through clanky gears, a pair of schoolgirls sent them a curious stare and a man in a tan raincoat regarded the car with an intense frown.
“Well?” Louise gave Abe a sidelong look, only to find him skewing his gaze at her. Each snapped eyes forward. So that was it? The only acknowledgement of last night’s kiss? She sighed.
“We gotta catch McKenna, sweetie. Before he sets out for Ellis. He doesn’t know it yet, but we’re going with him. Hang on—gotta get across the bridge.”
Louise caught her breath. And hung on. They zipped up busy Flatbush Avenue, veering around a rag collector in his horse-drawn wagon and almost plowing into a double-parked milk-delivery truck. When Louise could breathe again, she brought up Cabby’s suspicions about Nigel Fairchild.
“Man oh man.” Abe sucked air in through his teeth. As Louise ticked off each of Cabby’s points, his grin widened. “Wouldn’t—that—be—just ducky.”
***
“What the hell you two doing here?” McKenna had been watching the police launch approach while eating a hot buttered yam from a street cart. The excursion across the harbor would be cold and damp, so he’d wrapped a heavy knitted muffler up to his chin and stuck wool gloves in his pocket. Now, with a scowl, he tossed
the rest of the yam into a barrel, wiped his hands on a handkerchief and strode toward the unwelcome visitors.
The lawyer was yanking Professor Oakley’s nurse along the paving stones, hand on her coat sleeve. Man, that nurse had been a bulldog yesterday, but this morning she was all big-eyed and docile, more like a cocker spaniel. Hmm. Did that mean she’d finally realized how much trouble her employer’s wife was in?
Abe Pritzker spoke first. “I called your office, Lieutenant. Doris told me you’d be here.”
“Doris?” How the hell did this Jew lawyer know the name of McKenna’s secretary? How the hell had he gotten even an iota of information out of her? Pritzker was slick all right. McKenna’d been asking around. Everybody agreed—the civil-liberties attorney worked angles nobody else had even thought of.
Abe Pritzker barreled on. “There’s no way you’re going over to harass that little Japanese lady without her attorney present. She has a right—”
“Look, Masako Fumi lost any rights she had when Tojo bombed Hawaii—or so the Feds tell me.” McKenna wasn’t quite certain of that—this enemy alien jazz was new territory—but he wasn’t about to let this shyster get away with bamboozling him into anything.
The lawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Not true, Lieutenant. In arresting Mrs. Oakley the Federal Bureau of Investigation violated at least four constitutional rights, beginning with the Fourth Amendment’s guarantee against unreasonable search and seizure. I’ll fight them on that, but you, Lieutenant, you are not the federal government. You are a city homicide detective investigating a criminal case, and, in said criminal case, my client has a right to legal representation.”
Louise cast Abe a surprised glance—he’d changed his mind about handling the murder case? He went on without acknowledging her. “Is there room on that police launch for us? Or do I hire a water taxi and charge it to the city?”
Louise was grateful when, after some wrangling, McKenna capitulated. Only Masako herself could explain the mysterious gallery visit, and Louise wanted to see McKenna’s face when the Japanese woman came up with a perfectly innocent explanation. Now was also an excellent time, Louise judged, to let McKenna know about Fairchild.
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