Louise's Gamble

by Sarah R. Shaber

  ‘Hand it over,’ Anne said. ‘I can fix it.’

  After two hours of a lot less conversation than usual, we began to pack up our work bags.

  Anne turned to me. ‘I heard there is a late night market around here,’ she said. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘I do,’ I answered. ‘You need to go up to I Street, turn left on Twenty-First, cross Pennsylvania Avenue, and the Western Market is a block down on the right. I’ll walk with you.’

  ‘I don’t want to trouble you,’ Anne said.

  ‘It’s no trouble. I’d like to get some air.’

  The two of us walked together to the market. Anne showed no signs of being a trained secret agent, but then she wouldn’t have been a very good one if she had, would she?

  Once inside Anne guided me down the canned food aisle, which was sparsely stocked to say the least. People must be stocking up for Thanksgiving, less than a week away now. Without a word Anne shoved open the back door for me. Jack waited in an idling car, one I hadn’t seen him drive before, and I climbed in next to him. Anne shut the door. Once back inside she’d do some shopping as cover, then leave with a bag of groceries and her knitting bag. I wouldn’t see her again.

  ‘I’m to drive you around a bit, then take you home,’ Jack said.

  ‘Could you go down Johnson Street, please?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Jack said.

  ‘Here,’ I said. ‘Stop here.’

  ‘Ma’am, I’m not supposed to stop . . .’

  ‘Damn it, Jack! Stop!’

  Hearing me swear must have impressed him, because Jack pulled into a parking spot right in front of a late-night liquor store lit up by a gold neon Martini glass, complete with a green olive and a red swizzle stick.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ I said.

  Inside, the man behind the counter looked shocked to see a woman alone. I couldn’t have cared less.

  ‘Give me a pint of Gordon water and a pint of vermouth, please,’ I said and handed him a five-dollar bill.

  He filled my order in disapproving silence. I put both the bottles, wrapped in newspaper, into my knitting bag.

  Jack didn’t say a word when I got back into the car, and I wasn’t in the mood to chat.

  A few minutes later he dropped me a few doors down from ‘Two Trees’ and tipped his hat to me. ‘Good evening, ma’am,’ he said.

  I doubted I’d see Jack again, and he’d been perfectly nice to me, so I found my manners. ‘Thank you, Jack,’ I said. ‘For everything.’

  Thank God no one was downstairs. I wasn’t in any mood to make pleasant conversation. I slipped up to my bedroom and changed into a new pair of flannel pajamas, the ones with the thin blue and purple stripes. Then I poured what I estimated was a jigger of gin into my tooth glass and sprinkled some vermouth on it. I hid the bottles in my dresser, climbed into my bed, and sipped on my Martini. I was a grown woman and this was my home, and I was going to have a drink if I wanted one!

  TWENTY-FOUR

  When I slept, I slept badly. Most of the night I thought about Alessa, but not before I had the good cry I’d smothered all day. Had Alessa really killed herself? Had she been murdered? If she was murdered, was her death related to her contact with OSS, or was it personal? Since the investigation of her death was in the hands of the DC Police, would I ever know what actually happened to her? What about her asset – was he safe? Had she picked up the name of the quisling that OSS needed from her asset when she was in New York, and if so, where was it? According to Melinsky and Corso, this was no longer OSS’s business, and so no longer mine.

  I got out of bed early Saturday morning and went into the kitchen to make biscuits, killing time before the morning papers arrived. The biscuits came out of the oven golden and flaky. Their homely odor lured my housemates into the kitchen from all directions, except for Ada, who would still be sleeping after her usual late night gig with the Willard house band.

  The papers came. I commandeered The Washington Post. It was less likely to have grisly pictures in it. Although I figured the Mayflower security staff would have kept the most perverse of the newspaper photographers out of the hotel. I was relieved to see that the picture of Alessa was the same as Friday’s, a genteel portrait of her with a tiara, not one of her body twisted up in her sheets in a nightdress, with dead eyes staring. Tears began to form, but I ruthlessly suppressed them.

  The article added little to what I already knew. Alessa was an exiled Sicilian countess who lived with her husband Count Sebastian Oneto and his mother in the Mayflower Hotel. She’d recently returned from a visit to a friend in New York City. The count’s private secretary, Orazio Rossi, accompanied her on the train while going to the city on a short holiday. Everyone who knew the Countess, from the doorman to the waiters, said she was kind and unpretentious. According to the family’s maid, interviewed through a cascade of tears, she helped prepare breakfast and lunch for the family. She even attended a church knitting circle to make gloves and socks for servicemen overseas.

  This was new. So her family knew about the knitting circle. But did they know she attended it disguised as a poor refugee and never mentioned her family?

  The police at the scene said the appearance of the countess’s corpse was consistent with suicide. The countess shared a bathroom with her mother-in-law, who possessed a quantity of Nembutal and laudanum, with enough missing to ensure death. Blood and tissue samples would be taken to verify the cause of death. Final dispensation rested on the coroner’s report.

  Although the countess did not appear despondent in the days before her death, Police Sergeant So-And-So, the senior officer on the scene, observed: ‘Sometimes people snap, especially in these difficult times.’

  He added: ‘Laudanum tastes so dreadful that it was unlikely the Countess would take so much by accident.’

  Count Oneto was said to be distraught and under a doctor’s care. I felt for him. And I felt for myself, too, wondering how I could live with all the unanswered questions I had about Alessa and her death. Deep down, though it made little rational sense, I still didn’t think she’d killed herself.

  For the rest of the day I kept myself as distracted as possible with chores. I taught Henry how to use the washing machine and how to hang his clean clothes on the clothesline so they would need as little ironing as possible. I helped Phoebe polish the silver she wanted to use for Thanksgiving dinner. I wrote a letter to my parents – always a challenge because there was so little of my life I wanted to tell them about – and one to Rachel in Malta. I helped Ada twist her hair into a new style before she and her clarinet went off to work at the Willard Hotel.

  And, of course, I was supposed to go out with Joe, an occasion that would have left me giddy with anticipation if I wasn’t grieving for Alessa. And, yes, I was grieving, both for her untimely death and the failure of our operation. I fretted over all those convoys steaming across the Atlantic, vulnerable to sabotage and submarines.

  Joe and I found ourselves alone in the lounge for a few minutes during the late afternoon.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘You’re not yourself today.’

  I told as much of the truth as I could. ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘One of the women I knit with killed herself on Thursday.’

  ‘Oh, Louise, how awful!’

  ‘Even more surprising, she disguised herself as a poor refugee, when she was really a countess. So she could have some anonymity, I think.’

  ‘Were you friends?’

  ‘We had lunch a couple of times. I liked her.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why she’d do such a thing?’

  ‘No idea. I’m sure the Sunday papers will be full of it again tomorrow.’

  ‘If you don’t want to go out tonight, I understand. But you’ve got to eat dinner.’

  I realized he was right. I’d had nothing but a cup of coffee and a biscuit all day. ‘I would like to have dinner, if you can put up with me.’

  ‘Let me see what I can find. Where
’s today’s newspaper?’

  ‘Childs would be fine, really!’ Restaurants were packed on Saturdays, as most boarding houses didn’t serve meals on the weekends. Many, like Betty’s, offered no meals at all, leaving their residents to subsist on cafeteria and diner food.

  I tried to cheer myself up by wearing my new suit dress again, and I must say it was a becoming color. Joe borrowed Phoebe’s car, and I noticed that I felt quite natural sitting next to him in the passenger seat while he drove.

  We arrived at the nearest Childs, the one near the White House and the Willard Hotel, early enough to get a table for two in a corner. I didn’t want Joe to spend a lot of money, so I ordered a beer instead of a cocktail and chicken croquettes with mashed potatoes and carrots. Joe ordered a beer, too, and a hot open-faced chicken sandwich with French fries. Our drinks and meals came right away. I found I was hungry after all. Halfway through our meal Joe ordered us each a second beer.

  ‘I read the article in the newspaper about your friend,’ Joe said. ‘She was a Sicilian countess? If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.’

  ‘Yes, Alessa Oneto was her name. I didn’t know her last name until today. Or that she was a countess.’

  ‘Sicily is an odd little island.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s been ruled by so many different nations that the country has been unstable for centuries.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s see,’ Joe said, ticking countries off on his fingers. ‘Greece, Rome, the Goths, Byzantium, the Arabs, the Germans, the French, the Duchy of Naples, Spain. It wasn’t until a hundred years ago that Italy took possession of Sicily, and Sicily considered the Italians another bunch of foreigners lording it over them. The Mafia came to power because Sicilians didn’t trust their rulers, whoever they were, so they counted on a local organization to keep order.’

  ‘Then Mussolini threw out the Mafia.’

  ‘Yes,’ Joe said, ‘and most of them emigrated to America.’

  ‘Lucky us.’

  ‘Dessert?’

  ‘No, thanks. Would you mind if we went home?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Joe said, gesturing for the bill. ‘Sure you don’t want to duck into Lafayette Park for a few moments of privacy?’

  I had to laugh, remembering our experience with the auxiliary policeman.

  ‘I’d be tempted,’ I said, ‘but it’s Saturday night. Every park in the city is crawling with military policemen, DC police, and those damned civilian cops.’

  When we arrived back at ‘Two Trees’ Phoebe met us at the door.

  ‘There’s a young gentleman here to see you,’ she said to me. ‘He’s been waiting in the lounge for an hour. He’s a foreigner – Italian, I think.’

  The young gentleman, a dark, well-dressed man, rose to his feet as Joe and I entered the lounge. He bowed slightly and took my hand. He’d be really handsome, I thought, if he didn’t slick his hair down with brilliantine.

  ‘Mrs Pearlie,’ he said, ‘I apologize for intruding without an introduction. I am Orazio Rossi, Count Sebastian Oneto’s private secretary.’ I was taken aback. How had this man found me? What did he want?

  ‘Oh,’ I said, finding my voice. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. This is my friend, Joe Prager.’

  ‘I’ll leave you two in private,’ Joe said, guessing we would be talking about Alessa.

  Rossi was still standing.

  ‘Please have a seat,’ I said, gesturing to Phoebe’s battered divan. I took the other end.

  ‘As I’m sure you realize,’ Rossi said, ‘I am here because of the death of the Countess Alexandra Oneto.’

  ‘How did you know who I am and where to find me?’ I asked.

  ‘I pray you do not object, but I questioned the minister at the church where you attended the knitting circle with Countess Oneto. He gave me your name, and the names of the other women there.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind.’ As long as my cover wasn’t blown. Or Alessa’s.

  ‘The Countess often spoke of how much she enjoyed your company, indeed, the companionship of all the women. And I understand you sometimes lunched together.’

  ‘I liked her very much.’

  ‘The Count and Countess know so few people here. As you can imagine, her death has desolated the family. The Count is holding a small reception in his wife’s memory tomorrow. I hope I can prevail upon you to attend. It would mean so much.’

  I hesitated. Melinsky and Corso had told me my involvement with this operation ended Friday after the knitting circle met. But wouldn’t it look odd if I didn’t attend? And what if Alessa had brought back the information we so desperately sought from New York, and what if she hadn’t committed suicide? Suddenly, I wanted to get into that apartment and meet her husband and mother-in-law. Maybe then I would have some idea of her mental state before her death.

  ‘Two other ladies from the knitting group, Mrs Laura Coleman and Mrs Pearl Hamilton, have accepted. And there will be friends from the hotel and some staff also.’

  I couldn’t consult Melinsky before Monday. Surely, he would want me to accept?

  ‘I’m honored to be invited, and I will be happy to attend,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rossi said, ‘it will mean so much to the Count. I will see you tomorrow at one o’clock. Apartment Five-One-Eight at the Mayflower Hotel. If you enter through the residents’ entrance, the doorman, Hays, will give you directions.’

  I walked him to the door. Rossi shook my hand again and inclined his head in a gesture that reminded me of Rex Harrison in Major Barbara. He really was quite good-looking.

  I found Phoebe and Joe in the kitchen drinking tea.

  ‘Who was that young man, dear?’ Phoebe asked.

  ‘You remember the Countess who died, the woman who was in my knitting circle?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was in the paper. She committed suicide, didn’t she?’

  ‘Supposedly,’ I said. ‘Anyway, that was the Count’s private secretary. He invited me to a reception in her memory tomorrow.’

  ‘You accepted?’

  ‘I did. I liked her, and I feel sorry for her husband.’

  ‘So you’ve been invited to swell the crowd,’ Joe said.

  His cynicism surprised me. ‘I guess so,’ I said. ‘But I don’t mind.’

  ‘He was a handsome young man, I must say,’ Phoebe said.

  ‘Typical aristocrat’s flunkey,’ Joe said. ‘Europe is congested with them. At least, it was before the war. Good families, good education, no money. Live their whole lives handling the affairs of those who do.’

  Joe spoke as though he was familiar with Rossi’s life situation, and that reminded me that I knew absolutely nothing about Joe that he hadn’t told me himself, and even that was very little. It was a good thing I didn’t want to marry him. He could be anyone.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Sebastian Oneto greeted me at the door of his apartment. Despite the sunglasses he wore to disguise his swollen eyes, I could see the evidence of sleepless nights in his pinched face. Though immaculately dressed in black suit and tie, Oneto was thin and stooped, looking older than I pictured him. Although that could be the result of grief, too.

  I took his hand. ‘I’m Louise Pearlie. I’m so sorry about Alessa. I liked her very much.’

  ‘She was fond of you also,’ Oneto said. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  It was a small group that gathered in the Oneto apartment. I recognized Rossi, of course, and Sebastian’s mother, Lucia. She looked too young to be a dowager anything. She must have married young, because I doubted she was out of her forties yet. She was talking to C.J. Mack, general manager of the Mayflower, whom I recognized from newspaper photographs.

  Two women about Lucia’s age sat on the brocaded sofa, drinking tea; her friends, I supposed.

  Pearl, who must have been wearing every piece of jewelry she owned, along with a silk designer dress, stood at the window chatting wit
h Rossi and Laura.

  It was a pathetically small group to be mourning a woman as young and vibrant as Alessa, and I felt tears of my own well up. Sebastian noticed and turned away from me to hide his own emotion.

  ‘Where is that girl!’ Lucia said. ‘The canapés should be served.’

  ‘If you mean Lina,’ Rossi said, ‘she’s still crying in her room.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll get them, then!’ Lucia said, stubbing out her cigarette and moving toward the kitchenette.

  ‘I’ll help,’ I said.

  Inside the tiny kitchenette Lucia and I arranged the canapés, delivered from the hotel kitchen on a crystal plate. I could hear quiet weeping coming from behind a door to the maid’s room.

  ‘We could bring only one servant with us,’ Lucia said, making no attempt to lower her voice, ‘and Alessa insisted on Lina. She is not the one I would have chosen, but as always Sebastian submitted to Alessa’s preferences.’

  ‘Mrs Oneto . . .’ I said, not knowing exactly what to call her.

  ‘You may call me Lucia. I am a countess, but that seems to mean little in your country.’

  ‘Thank you. Lucia, do you really think that Alessa killed herself?’

  ‘What other explanation could there be?’ she said impatiently. ‘She died in her sleep. Some of my laudanum and Nembutal pills are missing. She and I shared a bathroom, so she knew where to find them.’

  ‘What I mean is,’ I continued, ‘she didn’t seem despondent to me.’

  ‘Who knows what goes on in another person’s mind?’ Lucia said. ‘Alessa and I weren’t intimate. I don’t know what she might have been thinking.’

  I felt it would be pushing it to question her any further. I longed to knock on Lina’s door and talk to her, but I didn’t see how I could do that without being noticed.

  Lucia carried the canapés into the living room while I stacked cookies on another plate and snooped a bit. The tiny kitchen was between the maid’s room and a dining room, no bigger than a breakfast room, really. The bedrooms and bathrooms must be on the other side of the living room, I thought, and the one door I noticed in the living room wall must lead to a hallway that linked the sleeping quarters.