Face of the Enemy
Page 35
“And I don’t work for Macy’s at all,” the new, confident woman answered, fluffing up her unfashionably cut hair.
“Who are you?” Cabby forced herself to be calm. She was a journalist: composed, detached, professional.
“Can’t tell you, except that I’m with the FBI.”
Whoa! Cabby felt the rush of a truly great story barreling toward her at sixty miles an hour. “Really?”
This new Mousie gazed at her soberly. “When the Bureau needed an insider in this all-woman boarding house, Director Hoover himself promoted me from secretary to Special Agent.”
“You’ve been looking into Howie’s father? The man you just nabbed?”
“Right. We expected Schroeder to approach the house from the alley. His coming up from the basement was a surprise. Must have been lurking there for some time.” She narrowed her eyes at Cabby in professional assessment. “Lucky you were there, Miss Ward. You did a swell job.”
A tickle of pride took over Cabby’s throat for a moment. This time her usually trouble-making curiosity had actually helped.
“Yessirree,” Mousie went on. “And it’s fortunate you’re a reporter, because I’m authorized to tell the press quite a bit. The Director believes it’s of utmost importance for the general populace to be vigilant concerning homefront security. A story in the Times would go a long way toward raising public awareness of the peril we’re in from spies and saboteurs.”
“Sabotage!” Cabby grabbed Helda’s grocery pad and pencil from the pantry. She began to write even before this…gosh!…this FBI agent continued on.
“Ernst Schroder has been on the Bureau’s list of suspected Nazi collaborators for a long time—ever since the German-American Bund began holding secret meetings. When he disappeared in ’38 with a few other Bund leaders, we began keeping an occasional eye on this house. A few weeks ago, one of our men in Yorkville got a tip that Schroeder and a couple of others had illegally reentered the country.”
“So that’s why you’re here, and why you’ve been cozying up to Howie. You thought he’d be easier to get information out of than Helda.”
“It was easy to determine that neither of those two were Nazi supporters, but Howie really turned out to be a brave boy. He helped prevent something that could have resulted in a major tragedy.” She chuckled. “He actually asked me how he could get in touch with an FBI agent. Was he ever surprised when I explained he was talking to one.
“It turns out that Ernst Schroeder and his gang were planning to target a dam at the Croton Reservoir. Schroeder tried to enlist his son’s help, but Howie wasn’t having any of it. So, with the boy’s help we stopped this particular cell of saboteurs, but there are surely more out there. We expect attempts on electric plants, on shipyards, bridges, on who knows what. It’s crucial for citizens to keep their eyes and ears open. Like Howie did.”
Cabby had a sudden, scintillating vision of dropping this bombshell on Halper. “Uh, all of this is on the record, of course,” she would state, for once feeling ninety-nine and forty-four one-hundredth percent pure confidence.
The new Mouse eyed her soberly. “You’re in luck with this one, Miss Ward.”
They both glanced into the kitchen. Howie was talking a mile a minute, Helda hovering like a mama bear with her cub. Baby bear was red-cheeked and excited as the boarders clustered around. Cabby had to wonder how long his smile would last—after all, Howie had been smack dab in the middle of an operation that ended with his father’s arrest. But for now, the kitchen was brightly lit. The coffeepot was percolating on the stove. They were all home, all safe. For now, at least.
And Cabby Ward had the story of her life.
Chapter Ninety
Tuesday, December 23
Louise walked at least a mile on Flatbush before she found a drugstore with a phone booth secluded enough for her purpose. This one was tucked in a nook at the back of the store, past the soda fountain and just behind the pharmacist’s counter. She sat, closed the folding glass door, inserted her nickel into the coin slot.
“Mr. Pritzker, please. It’s Miss Hunter calling. Yes, thank you. I’ll wait.” Louise tapped her toe, glanced around. An Amos ‘n’ Andy poster grinned at her from the booth’s back wall—a Pepsodent advertisement. She ran her tongue over her teeth.
Yesterday evening, outside the hearing room where the Board was considering Masako Oakley’s case, Abe had asked her to spend the holiday with him at a country inn in Vermont. He’d gazed at her with knowing eyes, and butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth. “I’m mad about you, Louise. And as for you? Well…” He smiled that crooked smile. “I think I can tell…”
She’d been so darn tempted, but something more than worry over the outcome of Masako’s hearing had stopped her from giving him a definite yes or no. Now, after a troubling midnight talk in Alicia’s room…
“Hello…Abe? Yes, yes, I think the hearing went well…Right, I have thought about your…invitation. But, listen…I know something now that I didn’t know then…
“What? Well, I know that you’re married—”
She held the phone away from her ear. “It doesn’t matter who told me.” Louise crossed her fingers, hoping Alicia’s revelation wouldn’t get her in any serious trouble at Brooklyn Law.
“But it does make a difference!…well, it does to me!…an understanding? Just when were you planning to explain about this understanding?” She came to her feet. Suddenly the booth seemed very small.
“Well, that’s all very civilized, I’m sure…oh, Abe—stop it! You are so…so goddamned…disarming…you could talk me into anything if I let you…the answer is still no…I’m sorry, but I won’t be going away with you this weekend…or any weekend…please, no…no…I’m going to hang up the phone now. Goodbye, Mr. Pritzker. Thank you for everything you’re doing for Mrs. Oakley. But, goodbye. Goodbye.”
The click of the phone in its cradle was like the period at the end of a long, incoherent sentence. No more messy love stories for Louise Hunter, RN. From now on, she was in control of her emotions—sadder but wiser.
As Cabby would say, “Never trust a man. That’s the ticket, Lou-lou—never trust a man.”
Oh, yeah. Good luck with that, Louise thought. And sighed.
Chapter Ninety-one
Late January, 1942
Sheets of snow assaulted the French doors leading to the winter-bare gardens of the big Tudor house just outside Bedford Village. A newly laid fire crackled in the brick hearth, and, although it was belated by over a month, a Christmas tree with bright lights and sparkling tinsel graced a windowed alcove.
Masako huddled into one corner of a chintz-covered sofa, shivering despite her green cashmere twin set and tailored wool slacks. She held her porcelain teacup as if it were the only reality securing her to this new safety, this new freedom. It was the first morning after her release from the Ellis Island detention center. Last night, George Wright had driven her and Robert up the Saw Mill River Parkway to his family’s estate in Westchester County.
Sanctuary. She took a sip that warmed her mouth and throat.
The Alien Enemy Board had considered her case just before the holidays. The hearing at the US Courthouse in Foley Square dragged on for hours, lasting well into the night. Special Agent Cyrus Bagwell had fired off charges, one after the other: the Japanese national Masako Fumi had familial ties to a member of Tojo’s cabinet; her residence was positioned to allow surveillance of US naval fleet activities in the Hudson River; Japanese characters and other traditional Asian elements in her art work gave her the ability to encode propaganda and sensitive military information. Said Japanese national thus posed a threat to the security of the United States and should be detained in Federal custody for the duration of the war.
Determined as she had been to keep her composure during the hearing, each charge burned its brand o
n her heart.
Her lawyer, Mr. Pritzker, had been a godsend. Thanks to his preparation, she was able to present herself to the gentlemen of the Board as a grateful refugee who had long since repudiated all ties to her war-mongering land, especially those to her militant father. Robert was the first witness called. The three board members had listened carefully as her weakened husband described their quiet life at home, her single-minded focus on her art.
One by one, George Wright, Lawrence Smoot, Nurse Louise, and various members of the New York City art world had also testified on her behalf. The most surprising support had come from that dilapidated police lieutenant who’d investigated poor Arthur’s murder. His testimony had clinched the ruling: he had heard Lillian Bridges, the confessed killer of Arthur Shelton, admit to making malicious, unsubstantiated accusations about Masako to the FBI.
“Viper!” Robert had whispered into her ear.
Amid the cigarettes and ashtrays and the notepads and shuffled papers, the proceedings seemed to have gone well.
Still, it had been weeks—nerve-racking, soul-ravishing weeks—before the word came from Washington that Masako Fumi Oakley, Japanese national, could be paroled under the supervision of her family physician, Dr. George Wright.
Paroled? Why paroled? She had been completely cleared of any crime. But Bagwell had made the successful argument that, as the daughter of a high-ranking enemy official, she would always be vulnerable to pressure from the Japanese. It was in the best interests of the war effort for the American government to know where the Fumi woman was at all times.
Now, in the safety and comfort of this beautiful room, the fire was dying down. Robert rose from the armchair where he had been reading the Times. He chose a birch log from the antique-copper wood carrier but stumbled as he went to lay it on the fire. Masako jumped up, her heart suddenly constricted in anxiety. “Oh, Robert, you’re still weak—and so thin.”
“I’ll be fine, darling,” he said, coming to her. “What matters is that I’ve got you back—that you’re safe.” He encircled her shoulders with his arm, and they sat together on the sofa.
Driven by the wind, the snow formed shifting, ghostly outlines on the glass doors. Despite herself, Masako shivered. “Am I safe?” She reached out and straightened a spray of white orchids in a slender ruby-glass vase. Even now she didn’t know if she would ever stop shaking.
She looked into Robert’s eyes. “Am I really safe? When I’m so afraid I don’t think I can ever leave the house? When I’m terrified to show my face in the streets? Will I ever be able to shop in a store—or be welcome in a gallery?”
Robert held her close. “Give it a while,” he replied. “I’ll get the apartment back in shape, hire a new housekeeper. That whippersnapper, Pritzker, is working on recovering your paintings. We still have your studio. People will calm down. Life will go on.”
Will it?” she asked, clutching his arm. “Will it?” She found it difficult to share her husband’s optimism. Maybe she could just stay here, in sanctuary, until the war was over. If it ever was over.
Right now, she couldn’t imagine ever leaving.
Motionless, they sat together as the snow slowly abated and a sudden ray of winter sun illuminated a maple’s dark branches sagging under fluffy blankets of white. Birds began to venture forth, one by one. A male cardinal streaked across the cold, dazzling gardenscape. Masako’s fingers began to yearn for a brush, her heart for a dab of cadmium red.
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